


To Buy the Moon and the Stars (For You I Would)

by Hopeless_1322



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (1974), The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Romance, Domestic, Falling In Love, Gatsby isn't used to someone actually giving a damn about him, Loneliness, Multi, My English teacher straight up admitted that these two should've ended up together, Period Typical Attitudes, Self-Worth Issues, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Wealth, and the fact that he doesn't need to buy Nick's love throws him for a loop too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-14 00:29:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16902648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopeless_1322/pseuds/Hopeless_1322
Summary: "I can buy you the whole damn city, old sport; anything you can possibly dream of," Gatsby whispers feverishly into Nick's ear, pressing a kiss to the other man's temple. "The New Amsterdam Theatre, Central Park Zoo, even....hell, even Lady Liberty, baby."Nick laughs and shakes his head, the liquor still warm in his throat and causing the world around him to spin too fast. If it weren't for Gatsby's arms around his waist, he'd surely be laying in a heap on the ground."You don't need to buy me anything, Jay," he insists softly, feeling as if he's said such a thing too many times to count now."But Icould. I could buy-"Nick shakes his head again, turning around in Gatsby's arms and silencing him with a a lopsided smile and a sloppy kiss."You could, yes, but you don't have to. In fact...in fact you could sell this grand palace of yours, Jay, and....and lose all of your damned money in the stock market,and I'd still want you."Gatsby doesn't respond, looking torn between disbelief and tears.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in under four hours while I should've been sleeping or studying, so apologies for any grammatical or spelling errors.
> 
> Feedback is more than welcome :)

The few romantic escapades of Jay Gatsby are all quite similar and not nearly as bold, exciting, or numerous as one would assume. 

However, rumours circulate around West and East Egg both, claiming that the billionaire bootlegger is a secret Casanova, and that he refrains from mingling at his parties in order to scout out his next muse, usually a dainty flapper or an aspiring cabaret girl.

Some women claim to have had been one of these selected flames once upon a time, whispering about expensive wine dinners and ballroom dancing behind cupped, gloved hands. Other women, ones who do not pretend to have been picked by the mysterious Mr. Gatsby, snort in disbelief at these tales of romance, while others yearn for the private, lustful attention of such a young, wealthy man. 

After all, money and youthfulness is a rare mix. Most women are forced to pick between a comfortable, respectable life with someone as old as their father or an utterly unglamorous life with the boy next door.

Gatsby is a desired breed by women looking to climb the social ladder of New York.

However, despite the numerous women who would gladly throw themselves into his arms, Gatsby is a relatively elusive man. His heart is not easily won over, especially with the idealistic ghost of Daisy Fay of five years prior holding it in a vice grip.

Everything Gatsby has done that makes him so attractive to other women has been in homage to Daisy. The immense wealth, the mansion and its location, all of the risky business ventures that nearly left Gatsby dead, have all been for Daisy. Daisy is the pulling force of Jay Gatsby’s life, making other women nothing more than background props at his parties, even if Daisy herself is nothing more than a warm, pleasant memory.

After becoming acquainted with Gatsby, Nick quickly realizes that Gatsby is not really in love with Daisy, despite all of his painful pining and acts of devotion that swing dangerously close to self-sacrifice. 

Nick knows that Gatsby is in love with who he _thought_ Daisy Fay was, with the impression he got of the exciting, pretty girl in Louisville five years ago. 

Daisy is an enigma to Gatsby, a faint memory that burns bright and hot because it represents hope for better times; hope for surviving the bloodbath of Europe, hope of creating the man Gatsby had always wanted to be, and hope for love and acceptance.

Nick understands this, but believes that Gatsby is far too disillusioned with the Daisy of his dreams to be convinced otherwise. Nick only brings up his viewpoint once, the night before he agrees to host a reunion between the two hopefully soon-to-be love birds.

“Do you really think she’ll be how you remember her, Gatsby?” He asks casually, trying not to sound too doubtful or critical as he stares out over the bay, eyes glued to the green light of the Buchanan’s dock.

“What could have possibly changed, old sport?” Gatsby asks through a warm laugh. 

Nick can’t tell if the other man is truly so deep in his fantasy world that he can’t logically reason that Daisy has possibly changed, or if he’s simply too stubborn to admit it.

“Time changes people,” Nick replies with a shrug, daring a glance of Gatsby’s face, obscured through the dark and the thick fog. 

Gatsby doesn’t reply right away, drumming his fingers absently off of the wooden rail in front of him. 

“You think marriage changed her?” He finally asks, still looking out at the green light beyond the choppy waves of the bay. “You think she’s a different woman now that she’s got a husband to take care of her?”

“That’s not exactly what I meant,” Nick admits. “Although, her marital status may be something to discuss-”

“She _doesn’t_ love him,” Gatsby insists suddenly, a hint of anxiety inching into his voice like a trembling note that hangs in the air at the end of an unhappy song. 

Nick doesn’t say anything, unsure of what he should say in response. He coughs into his elbow once the silence becomes too heavy, an excuse of the late hour and bed on the tip of his tongue, when Gatsby speaks again:

“She doesn’t love him,” he repeats, almost sounding as if he’s on the verge of panicking. “You’ve seen her with her husband, haven’t you, old sport? Tell me, what were they like together?”

“What were they like together?” Nick parrots, caught off guard and confused. “Well, I suppose they...they weren’t happy, not like married couples ought to be.”

Gatsby seems to perk up at this news, but only for a brief moment before a troubled look clouds his face yet again.

“You aren’t just saying things I want to hear, are you?” He asks tentatively, turning to face Nick with a look of worry. “Because I don’t want you to just say things you think will make me happy, not if they aren’t true. Is she really not happy with her fellow, Nick? Does she really not love him?”

Nick swallows thickly, starting to feel panicked himself. Is he an architect of Gatsby’s delusions if he continues to speak ill of Daisy and Tom’s dysfunctional marriage without mentioning that few aristocrats marry to be happy? Should he disrupt the mirage now?

“No, she’s not happy, but…”

“But?” Gatsby demands breathlessly, the sangfroid nature of his character being chipped away to reveal a much different, much more insecure figure. 

“I can’t speak of love, Gatsby,” Nick admits with a shake of his head, looking anywhere but at Gatsby’s pleading eyes. “I don’t know if she loves him or not….love isn’t as important of a factor to people like Daisy when considering marriage.”

Gatsby looks confused, eyebrow quirked. “But she’s got money,” he says with a shake of his head. “Doesn’t your family have money, old sport? Why would she need-”

“It’s...it’s complicated,” Nick says lamely, unsure how to proceed. “Money plays a part, definitely, but-”

“Well, I’ve got money now! I’ve got-”

“But you haven’t got...you haven’t got-”

“Got what? I have enough bed chambers for her to sleep in a different one every night of the month! I’ve got a ballroom, a staff of chefs, a pool, and a-”

“It’s a pedigree, Gatsby!” Nick interrupts with another shake of his head and a wince as shame washes over his face. “My cousin has a pedigree and so does her husband. People like them don’t...they don’t stray from their own kind, they have an unspoken rule about-”

“But I’ve got it all now,” Gatsby mumbles in a small voice, suddenly looking defeated and crushed. He turns away from Nick and gazes back out over the bay. “She’ll see this place tomorrow, she’ll see it and she won’t want to leave.”

Nick, feeling defeated himself, says nothing. He squints over at Daisy’s green light and finds that it hurts his eyes, so he looks away.  
\--------------------------------

The reunion between Gatsby and the reason for his heart’s very beating takes place in Nick’s living room, recently spruced up by a fleet of servants sent by Gatsby.

Nick is unsure of what to expect, as emotions are surely going to run high. Gatsby is lovesick and expecting the ghost of years gone by to greet him with a kiss, and Daisy is interested in excitement, in an adventure, but not in leaving her husband and daughter behind for a fling from her youth.

It’s really a long term disaster waiting to happen, a bomb sitting on Gatsby’s lap, a grenade laying at the bottom of his pool, but he won’t let Nick help him.

“How do I look?” Gatsby asks as he paces back and forth in front of Nick’s sofa, sliding a hand through his slick, gelled hair. 

“Fine,” Nick assures him for the seventh time.

Gatsby doesn’t seem convinced and repeats this question five more times as he continues to wander around the room, messing around with the various lilacs the servants placed atop of the tables and fireplace mantel. 

When Daisy does finally arrive, under the pretense that she and Nick are going to have tea and talk, Gatsby runs for the hills, leaving through the back door while Nick invites his cousin inside of his humble home.

Nick is horribly confused, and slightly embarrassed as Daisy makes a big fuss over all of the flowers in the room.

“My, Nicky, you didn’t have to do all of this for me,” she coos with a wide smile, sitting on the edge of the sofa and picking at the sandwiches on the coffee table. “Are you in love with me?”

Nick flushes and manages a smile back, his mind racing as he wonders what to say. He hadn’t planned on actually hosting a conversation with his cousin, especially under such awkward circumstances. All he can think of is Gatsby and how shaken and nervous he must be to have jumped ship.

Daisy, ever the conversationalist and a natural center of attention, begins to babble on about her new designer sundress and a shopping trip she embarked on with Jordan Baker last week. 

Halfway through the story (which would be utterly boring if anyone other than Daisy were telling it) there is a knocking at the front door.

“Who all did you invite, Nicky?” Daisy asks with a faint laugh. “Is she who the flowers are for?”

Nick is torn between relief and disappointment when he opens his front door to see a disgruntled and fidgety Gatsby.

“Is she still here?” He whispers urgently, carelessly wiping his sweaty palms off on his white suit pants.

Nick nods, stepping aside to allow his second guest inside. Gatsby looks like an emotional wreck, visibly perspiring as he slicks back his hair again and, for the hundredth time, asks Nick if he looks acceptable. With yet another assurance on Nick’s behalf, Gatsby steps into the living room.

The fantasy world in Jay Gatsby's head and the real world of sharp edges and unhappy endings collide.

Nick excuses himself twenty minutes into the reunion, as the living room has become unbearably awkward. Unspoken words hang in the air like smoke, suffocating all of the room’s inhabitants. 

Gatsby stands in the corner, twiddling his thumbs and coughing into his hands, and Daisy stares resolutely out the window, refusing to look at him. Nick feels like an intruder in his own home, so he steps outside with the excuse of needing to run into town.

“You can’t go!” Gatsby hisses as he follows Nick into the hallway. He looks downright scared, and Nick almost pities him enough to stay. “Nick! Please!”

“You’re just embarrassed,” Nick whispers with a shake of his head, already slipping on his jacket. “She is, too. You just need to clear the air, and I don’t think my presence here is helping.”

“Nick-”

“You’re being very rude, Daisy’s all by herself in there,” Nick says as sternly as he can, despite feeling very rude himself for walking out while there's company sitting in his living room. “Go talk to her, I’ll give you half an hour.”

“That’s an awfully long time.”

“So is five years,” Nick replies as earnestly as he can, one foot out the door. “Go on, you’ll be fine. My cousin won’t bite you.”

Gatsby manages a shaky smile and nods. “You sure I look alright?”

“I promise you, you look fine.”

Gatsby nods, hesitating a moment. “Thank you, old sport. You have no idea how much this means to me...you sure you don’t want a new car or a-”

“This is a favor for a friend, not a business transaction,” Nick says with a soft smile and a shake of his head. "Now go on, go talk to her." 

Gatsby grins again, although there’s an emotion hidden behind his teeth that Nick can’t quite decipher.  
\-------------------------------

When Nick arrives back to his house after a long stroll around West Egg, he finds a completely different scene in his living room than when he left.

Daisy is beaming like the sun, her cheeks smeared with mascara and tears. Her and Gatsby are now sitting on the sofa together, knees touching as they talk to one another in hushed voices, whispering so softly that it's as if the trees and flowers outside are trying to eavesdrop on them. 

Nick, feeling awkward and out of place for an entirely different reason now, makes as much noise as possible while re-entering his home. However, Daisy and Gatsby are too invested in one another to pay him much mind.

“Oh, Nicky,” Daisy breathes with an embarrassed giggle, dabbing at her eyes with Gatsby’s handkerchief. “Did you get what you needed?”

Nick nods and politely averts his eyes as his cousin excuses herself to the bathroom to wash her face. 

Gatsby smiles over at Nick, and says in a single breath, “I think she’s happy to see me, old sport, I think you were right about her husband, she still has a spot for me in her heart.”

Nick nods encouragingly, although he’s still concerned. There’s no possible way for Daisy to live up to the fantasy Gatsby has woven in his head over all of these years, not to mention Daisy’s fickle affections….

“Now we’ve just got to get her back to my house, I’ve got to show her around, show her all of the things I’ve gotten for her…” Gatsby whispers, still grinning like the cat who caught the canary. 

“Invite her over, then,” Nick says with a wave of his hand. “Show her your palace.”

Gatsby’s smile drops. “You have to come with her.”

“Why? Wouldn’t it be better for the two of you-”

“Sure, sure, some time alone was good, it got us talking, but I’m...if it’s just the two of us for too long...I think I need to ease into it, you know? I still can’t believe she’s here, Nick, warm skin and a beating heart. She was a ghost before, phantom touches and invisible smiles, but now she’s here. I need...I need some company.”

Nick is about to object and inform Gatsby that he has Daisy for company, that Daisy is the meaning behind this entire hoop-jumping escapade, but he can’t. Gatsby still looks nervous, and Nick can’t blame him.

After all, Gatsby's entire life’s work along with all of his hopes and dreams are on the line, balancing on the tip Daisy’s pinky finger. So Nick begrudgingly agrees to his friend's pleas, and he accompanies Gatsby and Daisy to the mansion once Daisy rejoins them, fresh faced and cheery. 

The tour starts off well, as Daisy is already weak-kneed and gushing before they even enter the front doors. 

“Oh my God,” she breathes, spinning in a circle in order to take the entire front garden in. “It’s beautiful! Jay, it’s gorgeous!”

Gatsby smiles, daring to slip an arm around Daisy’s waist as he takes his place beside her. 

“It is,” he agrees, his confidence seemingly restored. “The lilacs are my favorite.”

Daisy continues to look around in awe, Gatsby leading her down the paved pathway to the back gardens, which are even more vast, diverse, and breathtaking. Nick follows a few paces behind, feeling oddly like a chaperone.

The whole thing slowly but surely seems to change from a simple tour to an open house, Gatsby playing the over excited real estate agent and Daisy the potential buyer. As they move from the garden to the mansion, from room to room, Nick can’t help but notice that Gatsby becomes more and more prideful of his belongings, more so than he’s ever been. 

Nick remembers how Gatsby had showed him around the mansion a few times after the two of them first met, and it was nothing like this. Gatsby hadn’t fawned over pieces of artwork (occasionally telling lies, as Nick is familiar with some of the paintings himself), nor had he showed Nick his entire wardrobe and insisted that he touch every article of clothing.

With Daisy, it truly feels like Gatsby is attempting to sell the property, and, in a way, _he is_.

It seems to be working, too, as Daisy is crying again by the end of the tour, weeping over the Egyptian cotton sheets of all of the bedding and the large, polished ballroom floor.

“You must have lots of guests at your parties, Jay,” she insists with a wild smile, twirling around on the marble floor by herself, skirt billowing out around her waist. 

“Yes, thousands,” Gatsby answers smoothly with a smile. “Can I get you another drink?”

“Oh, no thank you, I really shouldn’t drink any more,” Daisy insists with a laugh, Gatsby catching her when she nearly trips over herself. “These parties, Jay, I wish I could throw such parties….so many people, so much dancing and laughter!”

“You should come to my next party this Friday,” he insists. “Bring your husband, I’d love to have you both.”

“Perhaps we’ll come….with so many people-”

“I’ll be a gracious host and show you both around, introduce you to the important folks. I host a myriad of people; wall street brokers, upcoming starlets, even a few politicians grace me with their company.”

Nick, feeling as if he’s a spectator to this event, decides that he’s ready to head home. He sneaks out through the front doors while Gatsby and Daisy begin to dance a simple waltz together, skirting around the edges of the ballroom.

As he begins to leave, Nick hears Daisy let out a squeal of laughter before exclaiming; “You must never be lonely with so many interesting friends, Jay!”

Gatsby doesn’t respond, his lack of a response flooding through the hallow house and making it feel even bigger.  
\----------------------------------------

It’s three days after the reunion when Nick sees Gatsby again, the other man lurking outside of his house, clearly hoping to catch Nick when he gets home from work.

“Hey, old sport,” he greets with a smile, casually making his way over. “You got a minute for me?”

“Sure.”

Gatsby smiles, although it looks strained. “I just wanted to thank you again for hosting Daisy for me, I really can’t thank you enough. I had no way of connecting with her before you came along, because, you see, she wasn’t coming to the parties, and I couldn’t very well just show up at her home…”

“It was no trouble, really,” Nick insists kindly. 

“Oh, but it was, and I...I wanted to say thank you,” Gatsby explains, reaching into his overcoat pocket to retrieve his wallet. “I know you keep saying that I don’t need to even the score between us-”

“You really don’t,” Nick insists quickly, face aflame as Gatsby retrieves a check from within his wallet. “Gatsby, really, there’s no need to pay me. I did it for you as a kindness, it was-”

“A favor for a friend?” Gatsby asks, looking unsure of himself as he says it. “You don’t have to be so humble here, old sport, I’m offering you a real nice chunk of cash to show my appreciation.”

Nick, embarrassed, shakes his head. He can’t accept money from Gatsby, as he truly didn’t host Daisy in hopes of gaining anything, just to help (or possibly hinder) a friend. Gatsby's inability to understand this is both baffling and frustrating.

“I can’t accept this, Gatsby,” he says quietly, sticking his hands in his pockets before Gatsby attempts to shove the check at him. “It’s terribly unnecessary, really.”

Gatsby blinks, looking confused, but nods and repockets his wallet. “If you’re sure, Nick…”

“Positive.”

Gatsby smiles again, trying to regain his grace. “Well, uh, I’ll leave you to your evening then.”

Nick waves, wishing Gatsby a good night before turning to his front door. However, Gatsby doesn’t make a move to leave, and Nick feels it would be rude to turn his back on a friend.

“Is something troubling you?” Nick asks awkwardly, hand hovering above the doorknob.

Gatsby shifts his weight from foot to foot and lets out an odd sounding laugh, eyes focused on the ground. “Well, I have a strange question for you, old sport, and if the question rubs you the wrong way, or makes you feel uncomfortable, you don’t have to answer.”

Nick, curious and engaged, takes a step away from his front door and nods. 

“I was wondering…” Gatsby pauses, letting out another strange, high pitched laugh. “You see, I think that...I think….”

“You think what?”

Gatsby forces another shaky smile. “Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course,” Nick reaffirms with a nod. He waits for Gatsby to say something else, to state the question, but he doesn’t. 

He simply beams at Nick, looking the same way Daisy had while exploring the gardens, and turns to go.

It’s not until Gatsby disappears into his vast front gates that Nick realizes that Gatsby had, in fact, asked the question.  
\---------------------------------------

The fantastical parties Gatsby hosts aren’t Nick’s cup of tea. The throngs of people, loud music, and hysterics of drunkness are too much, so Nick typically refrains from attending.

That is, unless Gatsby asks him to come, which is occasionally the case. Tonight, the night that Daisy is to attend one of the great Gatsby’s parties for the first time, is such an occasion that Gatsby requests Nick’s attendance.

So Nick goes.

It’s loud and crowded, as always, and Nick fights his way through the giant entryway and up the twisting staircase to Gatsby’s study.

Gatsby is excited, almost in a childlike manner. This is it, the big show. The woman of his dreams is going to finally come to a party, as was intended from the very beginning of Jay Gatsby’s reign over New York City.

“Thank you for coming tonight, old sport,” he says with a grin. “It means a lot to me...I know you’re not the biggest fan of my get-togethers, but it means a lot to have you here tonight.”

Nick smiles cordially and takes a seat across from Gatsby’s desk. “Of course. Have you heard from Daisy since Thursday?”

Gatsby’s smile flickers briefly. “No, but I supposed it would be hard for her to contact me, what with her husband and all.”

Nick nods in agreement, and decides that mentioning Tom’s various daytime activities that keep him occupied would be cruel. “Sure.”

“I’m going to need your help,” Gatsby continues, opening the top drawer of his desk and pulling out a small velvet box. “At one point in the evening, I need you to take off with Daisy’s fellow and chat him up, distract him. Just give me a moment or two with Daisy. Do you think you can do that for me?”

Nick nods, raising a curious eyebrow as Gatsby opens up the box for him to see the string of pearls inside.

“I bought it yesterday,” Gatsby explains with a proud smile. “All real, genuine pearls. You think she’ll like them?”

“I’m certain she’ll like them,” Nick replies, admittedly a little shocked at the expensive gift. It’s not that Gatsby isn’t able to afford such lavish things, he could buy Daisy a new necklace made of pearls or rubies every single day for the rest of his life if he so well pleased, but already buying her expensive gifts after only being reunited for a single meeting?

“Do you think she already has pearls?” Gatsby asks lowly, suddenly looking nervous again. It would seem that Daisy tends to drain him of his usual confidence. “By God, I bet a woman like her already has five or six strings of pearls, Nick.”

“Yes, but this will be the only string she has from you,” Nick supplies with a soft smile.

Gatsby frowns, looking confused. “What difference does that make?”

“Well…” Nick feels himself blush. He’s a much more sentimental person than his cousin is, surely who the pearls are from wouldn’t make much of a difference to her….

“Would it make a difference to _you_ , old sport?” Gatsby asks, his look of confusion morphing into one of playfulness. “If you already had six or seven watches, and a girl of yours gave you another, would you really make a big fuss over it? Would you kiss her, tell her thank you, and make a point of wearing it every day?”

Nick laughs quietly and nods. “I would...I suppose that makes me a bit of a romantic.”

Gatsby nods. “I suppose it does. Nothing wrong with that though, old sport, nothing at all. I wish I’d had a woman in my life who felt like that.”

“You ever had another woman besides my cousin?” Nick asks curiously. He’s always wondered if Gatsby’s one-sided love affair with Daisy was a full time commitment or not. It surely couldn’t have been, could it?

“A few,” Gatsby admits with an absent nod. “Mostly women who came to my parties alone...it never was the same, though, and none of those flings ever lasted more than a week or so.”

“A week?” 

“Yes, a week. I think there were two problems with all of my affairs that caused them to be so short lived.”

“And what would those two problems be?” Nick inquires.

Gatsby’s lips spread into a wide, self deprecating smile. “The two problems, old sport, were me and the woman. I would always overthink it, compare the woman to Daisy and find myself uninterested. The women...I don’t think any of them really cared for me very much….not like Daisy did.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Nick hums thoughtfully, trying to picture Gatsby with a woman other than Daisy. It’s a difficult task, and Nick finds that he can only create realistic images of the lone bachelor kissing and holding his cousin.

“It was nothing really. All of these women...they weren't very interested in me at the end of the day. I think they were more interested in my money….not that there’s anything particularly wrong with that, but...I suppose I felt….unloved at times.”

Nick feels a tug at his heartstrings, and once again wonders if by his helping his cousin and Gatsby start an affair he’s leading Gatsby to another inevitable disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, watching Gatsby gaze down at the pearl necklace in a quiet, contemplative sort of way. 

Gatsby guffaws and waves a hand, seemingly brushing the subject away into a dark, musty corner to be dealt with later. “It’s in the past, nothing but a memory. Besides, I’ve got Daisy in my world again…..it’s all coming together, because of you, Nick.”

Nick manages a smile, but once again can’t help but feel guilty as Gatsby reaches across the desk to give his shoulder an affectionate squeeze. 

“Of course…”

“You’re a good friend, Nick, easily the best I’ve ever had,” Gatsby continues with a small, appreciative smile. “I really can’t thank you enough.”

The moment feels too intimate, too close. Gatsby is smiling at Nick as if he’s fixed his world, and Nick can’t help but think that he’s playing a role in its destruction.  
\-------------------------------------

The party scene seems unfitting for Tom Buchanan; large, brooding, and unsocial. He frowns and looks semi-disgusted by Gatsby’s out of control guests, an air of superiority about him as he scans the ballroom.

Daisy doesn’t look particularly enthralled either, the drunken, wild antics of the party-goers, along with how uncivilized and unbred some of them are is clearly displeasing to her.

Gatsby puts on a show, regardless, showing the Buchanans around with the same pride he exhibited while showing off the mansion to Daisy. Hands are shaken, names and business cards are exchanged, and the party goes on in full swing. Jordan Baker breaks away from her own usual groupies to accompany Daisy, the two walking around arm-in-arm.

“You finally came!” Jordan exclaims with a smile. “Finally, someone I can talk to! I’m always so lonely here without you. There’s no one worth talking to, just a bunch of high budget prostitutes, really. Let’s have a ball, Daisy.”

Nick does his best to keep from rolling his eyes, finding the two heads of Miss Baker rather distasteful and ridiculous.

Tom eventually seems less appalled by the drinking and dancing, perhaps due to a combination of Jordan Baker’s presence (after all, she is good people and she’s having a good time then maybe this chaotic scene is alright to indulge in) and an appreciation for the young flappers’ slender figures.

Nick doesn’t even need to take Tom aside, as he takes off to exchange pleasantries with a nearby dancer after receiving the grand tour from Gatsby. Daisy, used to such inattentive behavior, seems untroubled by it, and gladly follows Gatsby away into his study, leaving Jordan with Nick.

The two of them take refuge in the entryway, sitting in the leather padded chairs, sticky from the humidity, and drinking. Nick always finds that he enjoys Jordan’s company more when he’s intoxicated.

“She’s been talking about him all week,” Jordan yells over the music with a serious nod of her head. “She wouldn’t shut up about him, Nick. All she would say was _Jay this and Jay that_ ….it gets to be a bore, but she seems happy. I think he’s her distraction now.”

Nick frowns, not liking the sound of that. Gatsby doesn’t view Daisy as a mere distraction, she’s his whole world, her idealized ghost helped build the Gatsby empire that they all currently bask in.

“He loves her, too,” Nick replies simply, finishing off his scotch and finding that he’s too sober still to enjoy this evening. 

“Do you suppose Tom’ll still be mad when he finds out?” Jordan asks with a snort. “That’d be awfully hypocritical, now wouldn’t it?”

Nick frowns yet again, as he’d almost completely factored out Tom’s reaction to Daisy having an affair. Surely a brute like him wouldn’t handle such news well, despite his having a mistress…

“They won’t get divorced, though, I can almost guarantee you that,” Jordan continues with a smirk that borders sardonic and uninterested. “They’ll never get divorced. Tom’s an economically sound man, with good respect in the right households. There's no reason for Daisy to stray too far, nor is there any reason for Tom to leave her, what with the baby and all...”

“Hmm.”

“You know what, Nick? I think I’m going to call it an early evening tonight. I’m just too tired,” Jordan says after a beat of silence, setting her half drained glass down on the end table before getting up to leave.“If you see Daisy again, let her know I left.”

“Sure.”

Nick watches Miss Baker depart, and once she’s safely out of sight, he snags her drink and finishes it off for her. 

It would be a shame to let it go to waste.  
\----------------------------------------------

Despite the commotion surrounding him, Nick manages to doze off, the alcohol subduing him.

When he comes to again, he finds that the party is wrapping up, people streaming out the front doors in droves, many too intoxicated to really walk, but instead swaying and stumbling outside into the hot summer night.

Figuring that Daisy and Tom have left with the rest of the herds, Nick begins to try and find Gatsby. He, like many of the other partygoers, is more drunk than he’d like to be, and finds that he can’t exactly walk, instead bumping from wall to wall as he wanders the immense halls of Gatsby’s abode.

“Nicky! Come give me a hug goodbye, why won’t you!” 

Nick groggily blinks before turning around, surprised to see his cousin, as bubbly and vibrant as ever, absolutely glowing under the spotlight.

“You’re still here,” Nick says dumbly, allowing his cousin to envelop him in her arms, her perfume bringing involuntary tears to his eyes.

“I’m on my way out now, just waiting for Tom to pull the car around front,” Daisy explains. “I’d offer you a ride home, but that seems a little silly, now doesn’t it?”

Nick, too drunk to get the joke, is momentarily offended.

“Nick,” Daisy whispers through an excited giggle. “I got a little something special tonight, would you like to see it?”

Nick blinks, watching as Daisy brandishes the string of pearls from within her purse. She smiles again, waiting for Nick to fawn over her new shiny thing as she always does.

“Aren’t they lovely?” She prompts when Nick fails to supply an adequate compliment in time. “Jay gave them to me tonight, and I’m just blown away by their beauty!”

“They’re nice,” Nick assures her with a nod, leaning against the wall as his stomach begins to lurch, unhappy with his earlier binge drinking. “Why don’t you wear them out?”

“I don’t have on the right dress for pearls,” Daisy replies simply, slipping the gift back into her bag. “The pearls from my mother would go much better with this dress.”

Nick can’t help but laugh and shake his head, as he’s never understood how the mixing and matching of seasonal fashion and their accessories works. It all seems overly complicated to him, but he doesn’t object. Instead he simply allows Daisy to hug him again before taking off with a new set of pearls in her purse. 

Nick then attempts to climb the steps in a fashion close enough to normal so not to feel embarrassed, and wanders down the hallways for Gatsby’s study, which he seems to have forgotten how to locate.

Much to Nick’s luck, he manages to bump into a butler, who walks him to Gatsby’s office, seemingly unperturbed by his drunkenness.

“You have a private visitor, Mr. Gatsby,” the butler announces as Nick stumbles into the study. 

Gatsby laughs, clearly amused, as he helps Nick down into a chair. “You doing alright there, old sport?”

“I drank too much,” Nick admits, despite the evidence for this being overwhelming and clear without an explanation. “I...I thought you might want to talk to me.”

“I do, I was going to send someone to go get you soon,” Gatsby replies with a nod, settling himself down in the chair beside Nick’s. “Do you mind?”

“Course not,” Nick slurs, balancing his chin on his knuckle and gazing over at Gatsby with hooded eyes. “What’s on your mind? She liked the pearls, she showed ‘em to me on her way out.”

Gatsby smiles again, but he looks troubled, like there’s something sour in his mouth. “Did she? That’s nice...she seemed to like them when I gave them to her. I was worried though, Nick, I really was. Did you see the necklace she had on tonight?”

Nick furrows his brows as he thinks, but he finds that he can’t recall whether or not his cousin had on a necklace at all, much less what it looked like.

“It was golden, an intricate design of golden flowers,” Gatsby explains. “It sat atop of her collar bone and she looked beautiful...do you think my gift will hold up?”

Nick chuckles. “What? Hold up? Gatsby, you gave her a gift, what she had on before-”

“She won’t think it unimpressive?” Gatsby asks, looking uneasy and paranoid. “She didn’t like the party, Nick, so I’m banking on this necklace. If it wasn’t good enough-”

“This is ridiculous,” Nick mumbles with a shake of his head. “Utterly damned and stupid.”

Gatsby side-eyes the other man, mouth snapping shut and eyes narrowing. He looks offended, and if Nick weren’t so gone, he’d apologize.

Instead, he continues:

“Look, here’s the thing about the people I come from, Gatsby,” he starts, unable to hold back a laugh as he thinks back to his childhood and the ridiculous practices of the blue bloods that he tried to leave behind. “They’ve got the attention of damned goldfish.”

“Daisy-”

“Daisy isn’t any different, not where it counts,” Nick insists slowly. “The necklace was great, she loved it. The party wasn’t up to par for her because of the people.”

“What’s wrong with the people?” Gatsby asks. “I only have these parties for her! I thought she liked extravagance...would she prefer a smaller party? A more private one?”

“No, I mean it’s the _kind_ of people you host here,” Nick clarifies, scrubbing his cheek with his palm. “They aren’t aristocratic snobs, Gatsby, you have...you have dancers and flappers in your ballroom….that’s not the kind of people my people mingle with.”

Gatsby looks pensive, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. It’s clear that his fantasy, his idea of who Daisy Fay is and what she’ll do for his happiness, is fading, as the real Daisy, Daisy Buchanan, becomes the focus of Gatsby’s world.

“I don’t know what to do,” Gatsby finally admits, letting out a small sigh through his nose. “I was hoping that she’d...that she’d take to my parties the way she took to my house. She kissed me tonight, Nick, and I kissed her. In that moment, with her lips on mine, I felt like I knew her again.”

“It’s not hard to know Daisy.”

Gatsby doesn’t reply, but instead stands and walks over to the glass window in the front of the study. He pulls back the curtains and looks out at the mess of cars fighting to pull out of his drive. He says nothing, but Nick can sense his inner turmoil, he can see it in Gatsby’s stiff stance and the restless tapping of his left foot against the carpet.

_Thud, thud, thud._

“Let me walk you home, old sport,” Gatsby offers a moment later. “You’re too drunk to go down the stairs alone.”  
\---------------------------------------

Luncheons and afternoon tea are commonplace on the social scene of New York, and socialites such as Daisy indulge in them often.

Nick isn’t as fond of taking days out on the town as his cousin is, but whenever she invites him, he goes.

“Nicky, you have to try the cheesecake here,” Daisy insists with a wink. “It’s better than anything else I’ve eaten in this part of town before.”

Nick hums in response, flipping through the menu and shielding his eyes from the merciless sunlight drifting in through the back windows. 

“Oh, Nick, did I show you the new ring Tom bought for me?” Daisy asks, eyelashes fluttering as she holds out her dainty hand and wiggles her fingers. “Isn’t it just lovely?”

“Yes, lovely,” Nick agrees with a nod, a strong sense of deja vu in the air. 

“He got it in Rochester,” Daisy continues, gazing down at her emerald studded finger fondly. “He told me it goes well with my eyes.”

“It does.”

Daisy laughs, throwing her head back as if Nick’s compliance to her gleeful materialism is the most splendid thing since sliced bread. Daisy is, if anything, animated, and Nick assumes that’s part of her charm.

Every joke is the absolutely funniest, wittiest thing she’s ever heard.

Every dress and hat is the most beautiful to ever touch her skin.

She’s a live wire, sending out warm shock waves to all that make contact with her.

“Nicky, have you seen Gatsby lately?” Daisy asks with a small smile. “He and I had tea on his back terrace two days ago, but I didn’t see you. Why didn’t you pop by to visit with us?”

“I was probably at work,” Nick says dismissively, now using the menu to keep the agonizing sun out of his eyes. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

Daisy’s ruby red lips spread into a small, secretive smile, and she leans forward across the table, looking prepared to confess to adultery. 

“He was lovely, Nicky,” she whispers dreamily, eyelids dramatically fluttering shut. “He’s so romantic, he says all the right things. He gave me a bouquet of roses, and the shoes I’m wearing right now. I showed them to you earlier, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I believe so. They look very nice on you.”

Daisy nods in agreement and giggles. “He said so, too. He’s quite the romantic, Nicky. I wish he were on East Egg.”

Nick nods and smiles easily, placating his cousin further by ducking under the table briefly to look at her shoes again. 

“Nicky, would you mind if I invited someone else to sit with us?” Daisy asks, tilting her head towards the table across from them. “I’m friends with those two women, we all play cards together on Tuesday nights, and I figure it’d be rude to ignore them.”

Nick would really rather Daisy didn’t, but he agrees anyhow. He figures more people to show off her new ring and shoes to would brighten up Daisy’s day, and give him some room to breathe.

Sure enough, Daisy turns around in her seat, squeals, and the next thing Nick knows, there are two other squealing women sitting next to him, gushing over Daisy’s beautiful new accessories and fussing about her romances.

“Your husband has quite the eye, doesn’t he?” The first woman says, smiling the fake, all teeth smile Nick has become accustomed to during his time in New York. “How lucky you are, Daisy!”

“He does have quite the eye,” the second woman agrees, smiling in the same fashion as her companion. “Do you have a wife yet, Mr. Carraway?”

“No, not yet,” Nick replies politely, imitating their smiles with ease. “I’m still learning the lay of the city.”

“It is a big city,” the first woman says with a nod. “There are so many people to get acquainted with, so many that sometimes I have trouble remembering names and faces. But, of course, I could never forget the face of Miss Daisy!”

Daisy bursts into shrill, delighted laughter, reaching across the table to give Nick’s wrist a pat. 

“I could never forget you either, Jasmine. My, my!”

“I could never forget Miss Baker the golf champion either. Such a talented woman,” the second woman adds. “I was just talking to her yesterday, Daisy, and she had on the prettiest pearls I’d ever seen! She said that you gave them to her as a gift. How kind!”

Nick quirks an eyebrow, and Daisy’s sudden discomfort isn’t lost on him.

“Oh, yes, I saw them, too!” The first woman exclaims with a nod of approval. “What a beautiful gift. Did you pick them out yourself?”

Daisy purposely looks away from Nick and smiles the same toothy smile as everyone else.

“Oh yes, I did. Just for Miss Baker, a dear friend of mine.”

Nick, not as suave and skilled as his cousin, is not so fast to hide his emotions. He visibly stiffens and shoots Daisy a wary look. Gatsby had just given her those pearls a mere week ago, and she’d already become bored with them and pawned them off...Nick isn’t sure whether to be disappointed with Daisy for this act of betrayal, or with himself for being surprised.

After lunch, as they walk out onto the sidewalk, Daisy loops an arm through Nick’s and smiles innocently up at him.

“Tom doesn’t always have the best eye for jewelry,” she says. “A few years ago he bought me these god awful pearls for our anniversary. I hardly wore them, so I gave them to Jordan. She seemed thrilled and thought they were beautiful.”

“I’m glad someone likes them,” Nick replies stiffly, wondering how soon it will be until he spots Miss Baker or another one of his cousin’s friends sporting her new ring or shoes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This didn't turn out at all like I had expected it to, and I'm not sure if that's good or bad yet. 
> 
> Feedback is welcome as always.

Nick will never understand why Tom is so insistent on flaunting his infidelity in front him.

Daisy is Nick’s cousin, after all, making Tom’s brazen acts of adultery even more offensive and confusing. 

If Nick weren’t so afraid of Tom snapping him in half, he’d be more direct with his disapproval of his cousin in-law’s behavior. However, quite liking his unbroken neck, Nick keeps quiet and sticks to subtle passive aggression and sarcasm, two verbal arts that Tom is relatively deaf to.

“I hope you ate before we left,” Tom says as they sit on the train, the car packed to the gills with suit clad business men and secretaries on their way home for the evening. “Myrtle always likes to walk through the shopping district before going to the apartment.”

“I did,” Nick replies, gazing out the window as he watches the sandy beaches slowly give way to gravel roads and small brick houses, their chimneys billowing white smoke. 

The heavier the air becomes with pollution, the closer they get to the ominous Valley of Ashes

“She’s had her eye on a new gown lately,” Tom comments off handedly. “I assume she’ll want to get fitted this evening.”

Nick winces as if slapped, as he honestly can’t imagine a more uncomfortable evening. He gets to watch his cousin in-law’s mistress try on dresses before heading back to their little nest of infidelity and discontentment to stare at the wall while they both drink, fight, and fuck.

Wonderful.

Sometimes Nick doesn’t understand why he allows himself to be roped into such uncomfortable and unenjoyable situations, but he always does. Whether it be a lunch with Daisy, a dinner with his arrogant coworkers, or a night out on the town with Tom and Myrtle, Nick always puts his head down and goes.

However, this particular excursion quickly becomes more unbearable than most, as the moment Tom and Nick exit the train car, a cloud of ash and cinders swallowing them both whole, Tom casually asks: 

“Do you think I should buy Daisy something while we’re out?” 

Nick chokes as both the pollution and Tom’s suggestion lodge themselves uncomfortably into his throat. 

He covers his mouth with his hands as he violently gags.

“She’s been having quite the affair with shoes lately. Perhaps I’ll pick her up a pair,” Tom continues, clearly well adjusted to his dual citizenship between his Morningside Heights apartment in New York City and his marital mansion on East Egg bay. "What do you think, Nick?"

Nick finds how easily Tom manages both of these worlds disturbing. How can Tom so casually slip between Daisy and Myrtle at whim? How can he feel secure enough to think of Daisy while he’s on his way to pick Myrtle up and whisk her away from her husband? 

Nick finds the complicated web of interpersonal relationships in his life somewhat overwhelming, what with being an accomplice in Daisy and Gatsby’s affair while simultaneously holding court with Tom and his mistress, who is also married….

It all feels cheap. 

All of New York’s bright lights, all of the toothy smiles exchanged over expensive lunches, all of the declarations of love made through expensive gifts….it all feels cheap. 

It’s beginning to dawn on Nick that his attempted escape from the suffocatingly patrician Midwest was fruitless, as it only landed him in the same sort of haughty city, full of worthless green paper being tossed willy nilly at jewels and cars and suitors.

Nick’s dying to see anything worth a penny anymore.  
\----------------------------------------

The evening slips by in thick droplets of vodka, only certain memorable events staying within Nick’s alcohol addled brain.

He can recall picking Myrtle up, and he vaguely remembers the cab ride to New York City, as Myrtle had babbled about wanting a new French fragrance the entire drive. Nick can also remember snippets of the shopping spree, and he knows that the dress Myrtle settled on was a deep forest green with lace adornments, but he can’t recall leaving the shop, or the events leading up to his heavy drinking splurge on Myrtle and Tom’s sofa.

“What about this one?” Myrtle asks with a flirtatious wink, clumsily spinning around the cramped living room in another new dress that Nick doesn’t recall her purchasing earlier. 

“It looks lovely,” Tom mumbles with an inebriated smile, pouring himself another glass of vodka with shaking hands. “Come here and let me see it better, darling.”

Myrtle, all smiles, stumbles over to him, letting out a shrill shriek when Tom pulls her into his lap and begins to feverently press drunken kisses to her cheeks and lips.

Nick blankly watches for a moment, the images taking a minute to compute in his head. Once he realizes what’s about to take place a mere five inches away from him, Tom's slipping his hand under Myrtle’s dress sending up red flags, Nick decides it’s high time for him to go.

He’d really rather not lay drunk and inert next to two people having sex, especially not Tom and his mistress.

So Nick forces himself to his feet, only to suddenly lurch forward and tumble over the coffee table with a sound thud, his lower back and head smacking off of the carpeted floor.

Nick is more stunned than hurt from the fall, and he lays still as a corpse on his back for what feels like an hour, trying to steady his panicked breathing. Neither Tom nor Myrtle bothers to check on him, both too intoxicated and caught up in one another to even notice Nick’s fall. By the time Nick clambers back to his feet, head swimming and vision blurred, Tom and Myrtle are in the middle of making love. Tom has the skirt of Myrtle’s dress hiked up over her thighs as he moans and pants into her shoulder blades, while Myrtle mewls into the arm of the sofa, back arched.

Nick shakes his head and stumbles back towards the front door, feeling sick and disoriented. 

He needs to leave, he shouldn't even be here in the first place. This is too much, too vivid and too _wrong._

As Nick stumbles away in a blurred frenzy, another new dress that he doesn’t recall being bought wraps itself around his ankles and sends him crashing into the front door frame. 

This time, Nick is not so fast to get up. His nose bleeds into his open hands, and his lower back aches and twitches. 

Images of Tom’s wedding ring pressed against the flesh of Myrtle’s bare hip, Gatsby’s pearls around Jordan Baker’s neck, and his own mother’s collection of pale-faced china dolls filter lazily through Nick’s head like an upsetting and infinite film roll.

He feels trapped, like he’s stuck on a merry-go-round. He can walk around the rotating platform as much as he wants, passing by each still-eyed, pearly toothed horse as many times as he damn well pleases, but he can never get anywhere.

He’s effectively a prisoner of the circus grounds.

“Honey, you’re bleeding all over yourself.”

Nick blinks and glances up to see a glowing, post coitus Myrtle leaning over him, her breasts hanging halfway out of her frilly corset. She presses a wadded up piece of toilet paper into his hands and awkwardly attempts to hoist him back up to his feet.

“Tom! Tom, your friend’s all b-banged up!” She yells as she all but dumps Nick back down onto the floor, unable to lift his dead weight. “Tom, come get him!”

So concludes the miserable evening as a sweaty and grumpy Tom slings Nick back onto the sofa, which is disgustingly sticky from both cum and the summer heat. 

Nick is in too much pain to complain, so he doesn't. He pinches the bridge of his nose, slick with blood, and graciously accepts a second piece of wadded up toilet paper from Myrtle.

Around him, New York City bustles on. 

Myrtle tries on the dress that tripped Nick up in the hallway, strutting around the apartment like a model. She smokes a cigarette as she peers out through the balcony and complains about the traffic with a content smile.

This is the life she desires.

Tom pours himself yet another drink and accuses Nick of ‘drinking like a goddamn woman’ when he declines. He mumbles about buying Daisy shoes again, elbows Nick in the ribs when he starts to drift off, and seats Myrtle in his lap.

This is one of the lives Tom refuses to give up.

Somewhere in the haze, Myrtle and Tom retire to the bedroom in the back of the apartment for the night, leaving Nick alone on the sofa with a throw blanket. Laying in the dark, his bruised face aching like a heart and his mind still racing a mile a minute, Nick finds that he’s crying, cheeks thoroughly soaked.

He convinces himself that it’s the twin burdens of pain and drunkenness, and tries to sleep.  
\------------------------------------------------

Work the proceeding Monday is a horribly awkward affair. 

Nick’s battered face draws the attention of the entire office floor, yet no one breathes a word to him about it. 

Secretaries direct their gaze down at their typewriters when he passes by, while the other bondmen whisper behind his back, some even being bold enough to vaguely gesture towards Nick’s work space or use their palms to squish up their faces in childish imitation.

Even Nick’s boss, Mr. Walters, makes it a point to avoid him, going so far as to leave the restroom without washing his hands upon Nick’s entry.

It’s all too much, and Nick finds himself feeling deeply ashamed. After all, the injuries that have made him the talk of the town were sustained because he was too drunk to walk… Nick doesn’t feel very good about himself when he considers this, so he tries not to.

He attempts to go about his day as usual despite his colleague's cold shoulders.

Nick finds that he doesn’t mind eating lunch by himself, as his meal is more enjoyable without the uppity oration of pseudo-philosophers and ‘self-made men’ who like to speak over one another in a jumbled cloud of commotion.

Nick is fine. 

New York is big enough to feel alone while in the presence of others, anyhow, so Nick doesn’t feel as if he's really lost anything. Not to mention that he’s never really found the company of his colleagues to be exceptionally comforting, as all of the stuck-up, cold young men remind him too much of his uncles. 

Nick is perfectly fine. 

On the third day of his social exile, Nick is eating dinner in the nook of a crowded and noisy restaurant near the train station when a familiar face slides into the booth across from him.

“You look even worse than I thought you would, cruiser. How does the other guy look?”

Nick sets his mug of coffee down and glances up to see Jordan Baker smirking at him, Gatsby’s pearls around her neck.

“I heard you got mugged,” she continues without waiting for Nick to respond. “Some people even seem to think that you were the target of the mafia.”

Nick, completely caught off guard, fixes Jordan with a look of disbelief.

“Who the hell have you been talking to?” He asks, wondering _who_ has been saying _what_ about him and his injuries.

“I’m very close with Miss Abigail Winston, a secretary at your office,” Jordan explains, pausing to glance over towards the front of the diner. “I’m actually meeting her here momentarily.”

“And she says that I’ve been mugged?” Nick asks flatly, not amused by such wild tales, or even shocked by them now that he’s aware of them.

Nick has learnt that people gossip relentlessly, lips flapping away and giving off puffs of hot air left and right. 

There’s no need to be surprised.

“Well, she told me that’s what other people are saying around your workplace,” Jordan says with an all-important nod. “Apparently they all think you’re too embarrassed to report it.”

“And where exactly does the mafia come into this story?” Nick asks as he finishes his coffee. “Was it the mafia that mugged me?”

“Close,” Jordan says with a sardonic grin, leaning closer. “They think that your neighbor, Mr. Gatsby, ordered a hit on you for blabbing on someone working for him within the mafia. Although Abby says that a few of the older gentlemen at the office believe it’s an underground prostitution ring.”

Nick raises an eyebrow and gives Jordan an incredulous look. This is even more absurd of a story than he was expecting. It sounds more like something he pre-drafted in high school than an actual surmation made by adults. 

“I’m a rat? I ran my mouth to...to turn Gatsby in?”

Jordan smiles again, this time looking genuinely entertained, and nods. 

“Yes, although, like I said, others think you were simply mugged and are too embarrassed to say anything about it.”

“Why would I be embarrassed about being mugged?” Nick asks, finding this entire situation to be uniquely bizarre in that special _New York mayhem_ sort of fashion that he’s thoroughly fed up with.

Jordan laughs, actually _laughs_ at Nick’s confusion, as if he’s joking. 

“Welcome to New York City, Mr. Carraway,” she says through another chuckle, shoulders shuddering as she dabs at her eyes with a spare napkin. "Do you care for it here?"

Just as Nick is about to ask Jordan to clarify why being the victim of a crime is something to be ashamed of, Abigail Winston enters the diner, glancing around anxiously and clutching her hand bag to her chest. Long gone are her mousy, gray work clothes and modest blush, instead being replaced by vibrant blue eyeshadow and a skimpy dress that looks like something a back-door dancer would buy.

“Ah, that’s my girl,” Jordan says with a smile, hungry eyes raking up and down the other woman’s figure as she stands and excuses herself. “Have a nice night, Nick.”

“You, too,” Nick replies softly, his stomach sinking when his eyes land on Jordan’s shoes.

Daisy seems to have grown very fond of regifting, or perhaps Nick just hadn’t noticed this undesirable tendancy before.  
\------------------------------------------

Phone calls are a rarity for Nick’s residence. 

His mother hasn’t bothered with him since he left three months ago, his colleagues never contacted him outside of work even when they _were_ speaking to him, and Daisy has a habit of simply dropping by without calling ahead.

So when his phone rings around two in the morning on Saturday night, Nick is admittedly startled. 

He considers letting it ring, as he’s tired. A long and awkward week of work combined with the insessant aching of his abused back and face has worn him down, but he can’t help but feel that a call this late must be important. 

Nick can’t help but let his mind roam to morbid thoughts, such as something bad having had happened to Gatsby, Daisy, or his mother. Once he allows these dark thoughts to infiltrate his head, Nick finds that he can’t shake them.

So he hurries into his living room and answers.

“Hello?” He asks through a yawn.

“Hey, old sport, did I wake you up?”

Nick can’t help but smile, drifting as close to his window as the phone cord will permit him to and peering over at Gatsby’s mansion, which is dark and seemingly asleep like the rest of West Egg.

“No...well, yes, but it’s no problem,” Nick replies hastily with a shake of his head. “Can I help you, Gatsby?”

“Well….” Gatsby hesitates, the silence crackling over the line like electricity. “Are you doing alright, Nick?”

Nick quirks an eyebrow, not finding the question itself odd, but instead taking alarm at Gatsby’s nervous tone.

“Fine, and you?”

“Fine, fine,” Gatsby quickly dismisses. “Are you particularly tired?”

“No,” Nick lies, still gazing out his window at Gatsby’s mansion in a vain attempt to guess which part of the grand palace the prince is currently residing in. 

Nick finds that this odd little game makes his and Gatsby's conversation feel distant and secretive, an odd sense of separation permeating the air despite the enigma that is Jay Gatsby being within walking distance. 

“Well, if you aren’t too tired, and I mean it, don’t bother if I’m keeping you up, would you mind popping over?” Gatsby asks with a mellow air that would fool most but strikes Nick as forced.

“Sure,” he replies. “I’ll be there in a minute...but I have to warn you, my face isn’t exactly a pretty sight at the moment.”

“Yes, last night at my party I was informed by someone who had spotted you that whatever strike I had ordered on you had been successfully carried out,” Gatsby says, the nervous smile audible in his voice. “I would like to see the damage done.”

Nick smiles, although he’s still ashamed by his appearance. If he’d actually been mugged, as some of the rumors tell it, he wouldn’t be so embarrassed, but stumbling around while drunk?

“I’ll see you in a moment and you can assess the damage for yourself,” Nick promises before hanging up.

As he slips on a proper shirt, Nick’s fingers graze over his swollen and distorted nose before running down to press tentatively at his purple and gray left cheek.

A soreness blooms beneath his fingertips like a flower.  
\-----------------------------------------

Gatsby waits for his much anticipated guest on the front balcony, a fat cigar caught between his lips and his hands stuffed inside of the pockets of his slacks.

His eyes light up when he sees Nick moving through the dark of the shadowy front gardens, but that look of excitement fades into one of worry once the other man steps into the light and reveals his battered face.

Gatsby doesn’t comment on it at first, instead waiting for Nick to say something, to comment on his own injuries and provide an explanation. However, when Nick says nothing, Gatsby decides to proceed with caution.

“You look like you got jumped, old sport,” he says softly, the worry etched onto his face seeping into his voice. “Are you doing alright?”

Nick manages a small smile and nods as he ascends the marble stairs leading to the balcony. “I’m fine, really, it looks worse than it feels, I assure you.”

Gatsby doesn’t look convinced, a ringlette of smoke sneaking past his lips and drifting apart in the starless night sky. 

“Is that what happened, Nick?” He asks quietly, eyes filled with a seriousness that Nick could’ve never imagined seeing on a carefree spirit such as Jay Gatsby. “Were you mugged?” 

Nick lets out a wheeze of a laugh and shakes his head as Gatsby reaches out to set a steady hand on his shoulder.

“No, no, I wasn’t mugged, Gatsby, I just had an accident, that’s all.”

“It happens to the best of us, old sport, even the most prudent and cautious of men,” Gatsby continues, ignoring Nick’s statement of denial. “When I first moved to New York I got jumped outside of the Heinrich laundromat, ended up with an empty wallet, a cracked rib, and a black eye. There’s no shame in-”

“What the _hell_ is with New York and shaming victims?” Nick asks with another laugh, smiling in an easy, broad way that assuages Gatsby’s concern, so much so that he manages to laugh along.

“It’s just an intrinsic part of the life here, you have to fend for yourself, you know? We live in an individualistic age, old sport,” Gatsby says with a nod, smoke lazily drifting out of his nostrils. “Failure to fend for yourself is seen as a shameful thing.”

“I don’t really care for that mentality,” Nick remarks with a hint of distaste, watching the smoke from Gatsby’s cigar cloud the overhanging terrace. 

Gatsby smiles, clearly amused. “I’m afraid that’s just how the world works, old sport. I’m fairly certain that people are inherently selfish, though it pains me to say it.”

Nick hums contemplatively in response, finding that such a cynical statement leaving the mouth of an idealistic dreamer like Gatsby is too sobering to be comfortable.

“Why don’t we go inside?” Gatsby offers, gently ushering Nick towards the front doors with a wide, cordial smile. “You ever been in my library, old sport? Because I’d love to show it to you. Daisy says that its the modern-day equivalent of the Library of Alexandria.”  
\----------------------------------

Nick finds that his night spent with Gatsby is immensely different than the night he spent with Tom and Myrtle a week prior.

Nick sustains no new injuries through drunken antics, nor does he get completely sloshed in the first place. Nick also feels as if his company is much more appreciated by Gatsby than it was by Tom and his mistress, as Nick doesn’t feel alone while at Gatsby’s side like he did that night while laying drunk on the Morningside Heights apartment floor.

Gatsby is just as attentive as always, gladly fulfilling the role of the gracious host. He all but glows as he shows Nick around the vast library, chock full of rows upon rows of bookshelves, all of them alphabetically organized. 

“You a big reader, Gatsby?” Nick asks through an impressed whistle that echoes off of the walls as he wanders about the room, the mere size of it enough to overwhelm him. 

Gatsby laughs in a quiet, embarrassed sort of way before poking his head around the corner of a nearby bookshelf to watch Nick trace the spines of several thick thesauruses.

“Not really, I must admit. They’re more for decoration than for practical use. How about you, do you read?”

“I used to,” Nick replies, grabbing a copy of _The Last of the Mohicans_ and idly flipping through it. “I suppose I fell out of the habit after college.”

“You want any of them?” Gatsby offers, peering over Nick’s shoulder to watch page after page of critically acclaimed text flicker by in the blink of an eye. “All you have to do is ask, old sport, and any book in here is as good as yours.”

Nick, finding the offer very kind, flushes and shakes his head. Gatsby attempts to give gifts often, whether it be pure cash or a different commodity, almost as if rewarding people for keeping his company.

“I can’t, Gatsby-”

“It’s really nothing, old sport, look around you! How many goddamn books do you think I have in here? Easily over a thousand,” Gatsby exclaims with a smile, stretching his arms out to gesture about dramatically. “You know how many of these books I’ve actually read?”

“How many?”

“None!” 

Nick finds this hard to believe at first, assuming that Gatsby must have gotten bored at least once during a lull in the day and opened up a book, but after a single glance at the sincere, goofy smile on Gatsby’s face, Nick suddenly isn’t so sure.

It’s hard to be skeptical with a dream as magnificent and enthralling as Jay Gatsby.

“Not a single one?” Nick asks in quiet disbelief, still staring at Gatsby in awe. “Never?”

Gatsby shakes his head, once again making a grandiose gesture to the stocked bookshelves around them. 

“Not a single one ever, old sport.”

Nick glances around the vast library again, feeling like he’s back at Princeton...yet this library is so much more than that. It feels different, a mysterious air of abandonment and untold secrets coloring the room.

“What’s your favorite book?” Gatsby asks, face lit up like a lantern as he begins to pace down the grand aisle of shelves. “I can almost guarantee you that I have it here in my library. You much of a philosophy man? Is there an economics book you don’t already have in your own collection?”

Nick hurriedly follows his host down the aisle, shaking his head. 

“Do you by chance have _The Scarlet Letter_ by Nathaniel Hawthorne?” 

“Of course!” Gatsby cries excitedly, whirling around on the spot and nearly knocking Nick over. “Hawthorne….Hawthorne…”

Nick watches Gatsby scan several of the shelves before finding the correct one, continuing his search from a crouched position on the floor.

“Ah, here it is!” Gatsby says with an impossibly bright smile, presenting the book to Nick with a delicate look of anticipation hidden beneath his mask of cool confidence. 

Nick smiles, but doesn’t take Gatsby’s offering, shaking his head. “I want you to read it.”

Gatsby’s smile falters for a moment, a look of panicked confusion filling in the momentary gap. 

“Hmm?”

“I want you to read it.”

Gatsby frowns ever so slightly, lowering his outstretched arm and scanning the cover of the book with critical eyes. He still looks confused, and he voices this confusion:

“Don’t you want it, old sport?”

“I want you to read it first,” Nick answers simply, unable to help but find Gatsby’s confusion endearing. He’s clearly been thrown for quite a loop, unable to fully grasp Nick’s request, a request that goes beyond that of material obtainment.

“You want me to read it?” He asks pointedly, eyebrows raised. “Wouldn’t you rather read it again?”

“No,” Nick says with another shake of his head, smiling to himself. “If you find yourself with any freetime, I want you to sit down and read a few pages. You might like it.”

Gatsby frowns again, but only briefly. He tucks the book under his arm and grins, traces of confusion still lingering in his eyes along with a spark of amusement.

“Alright then, old sport, if I find myself with some time, I’ll take a look at it. You sure there isn’t a book in here you want for yourself?”

Nick politely shakes his head. “That’s a very kind offer-”

“Aw, c’mon, old sport, it’s the least I can do for you.”

“No, really, thank you but-”

Gatsby smiles and cocks his head, clearly becoming frustrated but managing to conceal his emotions.

As much as Gatsby is foreign and bizarre to Nick, Nick is to Gatsby, and Gatsby is unsure how to respond to Nick’s dejection of his gratitude. 

Should he take offense? Should he offer Nick something else, something more worthy of his companionship at such a late hour?

 _Perhaps a watch would be a more appropriate gift_ , Gatsby thinks, suddenly feeling as if he’s insulting his guest. Nick’s coveted company is worth more than a book Gatsby previously mentioned having no attachment to...

“If you don’t mind me asking, why did build yourself a library if you never read?” Nick asks, snapping Gatsby out of his head and back to the library.

“What’s that, old sport?”

“Why did you build yourself a library if you never read?” Nick asks again, quieter this time, as if he’s afraid that his question is disrespectful. 

Gatsby opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. 

Why _did_ he buy all of these books? 

He supposes that he’d had Daisy in mind, as he remembers that he’d enjoyed daydreaming about showing it to her, envisioning her amazed, breathless expression as she gazed around at another one of his many monuments to her.

Is that why he assembled such an impressive, breathtaking library? To impress the woman of his dreams? To ensnare her in his charming trap in hopes of holding her captive?

“Do you like it?” Gatsby asks instinctively, lips curling into a small, desperate smile. 

When he’d asked Daisy this same question three days ago, she’d been in a fit of exhilarated giggles as she gazed around the library with wide eyes. 

_It’s so beautiful, Jay! All of this is so beautiful! My God, my good God! How many books do you have in here?! You should have someone count them all!_

Nick looks appreciative of it, too, but in a different way. Gatsby can’t quite find the right words to describe Nick’s quiet appreciation, but there’s something different about it that makes Gatsby feel strange.

There’s something about it that makes Gatsby feel secure.

“It’s lovely,” Nick answers, the sad air about him as he looks around at the marvelous room causing Gatsby great confusion.  
\----------------------------------

As the sun rises over the bay, Nick and Gatsby are both still awake, taking up residence in Gatsby’s study and filling the empty space between them with casual conversation.

“You ever been to California, old sport?” Gatsby asks, puffing through his fifth cigar of the night, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep but his body as lively and electric as ever. 

“I’m afraid not,” Nick replies, his own cigar hanging from his mouth, the lit end burning orange and yellow. “Tell me about it, Gatsby.”

“Gladly,” Gatsby replies with a satisfied smile, hands folding neatly around around his left knee. “I was out there two times, the more recent trip being two years ago. While I was there, staying in a beach house in San Diego, I met the strangest, most brilliant fellow.”

Nick nods along, having had heard a similar version of this story before. That’s the thing about Gatsby’s stories that pull Nick in so completely; _they always change._

Minor details are blurred like smudged pen ink or outright omitted if Gatsby so fancies it. Certain names are changed, while others are forgotten, and the sequence of events tends to become jumbled.

Nick doesn’t believe anything Gatsby tells him, as he’s no fool, but Nick _wants_ to believe. He _wants_ to believe in the crazy dream world that Gatsby resides in, wants to have faith in the American dream that Gatsby is living proof of. 

So Nick eagerly listens to Gatsby’s stories, occasionally being drawn to the edge of his seat before being gently pulled back as the wild tale concludes, always in Gatsby’s victory. 

It all resonates strongly with the stories Nick recalls the governess reading to him when he was a child, except the dragons have been recast as greedy, corrupt men in trench coats, the damsel in distress as Daisy, and the knight as the ever daring Gatsby.

Nick finds he likes this fantasy world of Gatsby’s and, more so than ever, he can see the appeal in taking up permanent residence within it and all of its beautiful falsehoods. 

“You need to see the west coast someday, Nick,” Gatsby concludes with a nostalgic, far-away look in his eyes. “Perhaps that Jones fellow is still there in his hut.”

“Perhaps,” Nick agrees with a nod, inhaling a mouthful of smoke as his nose starts to ache again like it does every morning, six on the dot. 

“You know, old sport…” Gatsby drawls quietly, the distant look in his eyes turning to one of horrible sullenness. “I’m sorry for keeping you for so long.”

Nick is admittedly taken aback. Mere moments ago Gatsby was animatedly telling stories and soaking in Nick’s attention like an eager child. Now he looks ashamed and small, the smoke of his cigar clouding his face.

“You didn’t keep me, I stayed,” Nick protests with what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “Really, Gatsby, I enjoy our time together.”

Gatsby doesn’t reply, but he manages to smile in return. 

“I enjoy our time together, too, old sport. You’re really the only person I feel that I can talk to these days.”

Nick has a feeling that this statement isn’t entirely true, as he’s seen Daisy’s chauffeur drop her off at Gatsby’s front gates at least five times within the last week, but he’s touched nonetheless.

“I hate to be sticking my nose in your business, old sport,” Gatsby starts slowly, nibbling at the end of of his cigar as a look of anxiety washes of his face. “But I can’t shake this feeling that you aren’t being truthful with me.”

“I beg your pardon?” Nick asks, caught off guard and slightly alarmed, unsure of what he’s being politely accused of.

“Well, your face, old sport,” Gatsby mumbles worriedly. “I know you said you didn’t get jumped-”

“I didn’t.”

“-but you obviously got roughed up pretty bad, Nick. Now, I know that men are hesitant to talk about….unpleasant occurrences that they believe make them look weak, but I assure you, Nick, there’s nothing weak about you because-”

“I wasn’t jumped, Gatsby, I...I fell. I was drunk and I fell….a few times,” Nick admits shamefully with a shake of his head. 

Gatsby looks mildly surprised by this revelation, lips pursing into an ‘o’ as he blinks. However, he catches himself quickly, taking a drag from his cigar and nodding in an understanding way that makes Nick feel even worse.

“I thought you didn’t drink often, old sport,” he admits nonchalantly.

“I usually don’t, I was with Tom Buchanan-”

“I would drink, too, if I had to spend time with that bastard,” Gatsby remarks coldly with a look of hostility. 

“Well, Tom was drinking, and the evening was horribly awkward and uncomfortable, so I started drinking, too. The next thing I knew, I was plastered, and I couldn’t function very well,” Nick continues, gazing down at his cigar to avoid eye contact.

“Didn’t Tom at least have the decency to keep an eye on you, old sport?”

“Well, he was drunk, too, Gatsby, and we weren’t alone, he had his mistress there-”

“Ah, yes, Daisy has told me all about the mistress. I have to ask, who is she?”

“Myrtle Wilson, she’s the wife of a mechanic in the Valley of Ashes. She was with us, and she was drunk, too. We were all drunk in their apartment in New York City, and I wanted to leave. In my haste I fell over the coffee table and into the front door.”

“Sounds like it hurt,” Gatsby says sympathetically with a frown. “I’m sorry to hear that, old sport.”

Nick shrugs it off. “I just don’t appreciate the outcome. All of my colleagues have been avoiding me like the plague. You would think I killed someone, Gatsby, none of them will even look at me. It’s just like…”

“Just like what?” Gatsby prompts curiously, an odd sparkle in his eyes.

“Well, back home I was engaged, believe it or not,” Nick says with a disbelieving snort of his own. “She was the daughter of a family friend, my mother and her mother arranged the entire thing.”

“You didn’t go through with it,” Gatsby states knowingly.

“No, I didn’t,” Nick affirms with a shake of his head. “I broke it off a week before the wedding was to happen, and everyone _hated_ me, Gatsby. The girl’s family sent me a handful of nasty letters, my aunts and uncles openly chastised me, and my mother wouldn’t even look at me.”

“No one should be forced to marry anyone they don’t want to,” Gatsby says with a firm nod, stubbing his cigar out on his ashtray. “Traditions be damned, Nick, I don't think that's the way the world ought to work.”

Nick smiles to himself, feeling slightly comforted by Gatsby’s support. “Well….my family sure as hell didn’t feel that way. That’s part of the reason I left. But all the cold shoulders I’ve been getting lately reminds me of my family, and I suppose it makes me a little homesick.”

“Homesick for _what_ , exactly, old sport?” Gatsby asks. “You’re a logical man, Nick, you don’t really think-”

“No, I don’t really think they’d all forgive me if I went back, but I wish they would.”

Gatsby sighs softly and nods. “Your coworkers will all be back once you heal up, Nick, I promise you. Something I’ve learned about the upper class is that they’re fickle, real damn fickle. Once you’re...palatable again they’ll come back.”

“I figured as much,” Nick replies with a dull shrug. “I just wish that New York was different. I wish it was what’d I’d wanted it to be.”

Gatsby looks pained by this statement, as if it resonates with him too strongly to be comfortable. 

“Nothing is what you want it to be, old sport. That’s just life. Say, would you care for some breakfast? My chefs should be here any minute.”  
\---------------------------------------------

Nick finds that Gatsby’s prediction is correct; once his face starts to heal, his bruises fading and his nose gradually straightening itself out, his coworkers come around again.

He gets invited out to lunches again, only to sit there and listen to meaningless arguments over yachts, raises, and self importance.

He gets invited out to dinners again, only to witness various bizarre and pointless pissing contests.

He has people approach him in the breakroom again, only to be used as an excuse to boast about nothing of importance.

Nick's re-integration into the social scene of his workplace is drastically expedited as new rumours unrelated to him begin to take form, swirling around the office like a swarm of angry hornets. 

One of the younger secretaries, Belinda Hatcher, is supposedly pregnant out of wedlock. As she moves about the office in a cloud of shame and humiliation, eyes swivel around to stare at her slightly swollen midsection. 

“Women are all whores when it comes down to it,” One of the bond men says with distaste at lunch, his recent divorce still clearly weighing heavily on his mind. 

“I wouldn’t go that far, but I will admit that there are more and more of them running around like hussies these days,” another bond man drawls through a sip of his iced tea. “I wouldn’t let my wife wear any of those new skirts I see in the shop windows.”

“Neither would I,” the stout and womanizing accountant agrees. “I haven’t the faintest idea why Wilson gave them the vote. They can’t even decide when it’s appropriate to keep their legs together.”

Nick finds the entire conversation disgusting. He has a rather witty comment about some men not knowing when it's appropriate to keep their pants up on the tip of his tongue, but he refrains from sharing.

He knows it wouldn’t change anything.

Instead, on his way back to the office, Nick stops by the florist and picks up a bouquet of pale, pink lilies wrapped up in delicate crepe paper. He carries them under his to avoid attention, and makes his way to the secretaries’ floor in the building.

He finds the desk of the troubled and recently-abandoned Belinda Hatcher and leaves the flowers laying behind her name plate before sneaking away.

Nick knows that she needs a lifeline, no matter how flimsy.  
\--------------------------------------------

Gatsby’s midnight calls to Nick’s house slowly but surely become a more and more frequent occurrence.

Gatsby is lonesome, that much is blatantly obvious, but Nick can’t help but feel that the other man’s sense of loneliness is becoming more and more crushing.

The calls, as they increase in number, also seem to increase in desperation.

_“Do you mind coming over, old sport? If you’re tired, well, if you’re tired don’t bother, but...I would like to see you.”_

_“Old sport, did I wake you up? My apologies if I did, but would you mind keeping my company for a little bit?”_

_“Hey, Nick, do you think you could swing over here for a little while? Just for a few hours?”_

_“Nick, I need you to come over, just for a little bit, just until I fall asleep….please.”_

Nick doesn’t comment on Gatsby’s worsening state, although he’s worried by it. Something must not be going accordingly with Daisy, something must not be the way Gatsby had dreamt it would be. 

When Nick and Gatsby spend the night together, they don’t sleep. 

No matter how tired Nick becomes, Gatsby makes it a point to keep him awake and moving. The two of them traverse from room to room, faster and faster the drowsier and drowsier Nick becomes. They talk and talk, wandering through the library, through the gardens, through the kitchen, and through the sunroom. 

Gatsby babbles all night long, telling wild, fantastical stories and encouraging Nick to do the same. The bold, untouchable air of Jay Gatsby always wears thin around morning, as the sunlight begins to stream in through stained glass windows, and Nick always feels helpless.

Gatsby always asks Nick if he likes the mansion, asks him if it’s really as wonderful as Daisy claims it to be.

“It’s lovely, Gatsby,” Nick replies automatically, unable to help but feel desperate himself, close to shameful tears at times.

Gatsby is falling apart, something’s eating at him, and Nick can’t help but wonder if it’s partially his fault. After all, he was the one who brought Daisy to Gatsby’s front stoop, all but wrapped up in a bow….

Did Nick help destroy his fantasy?

Did Nick help destroy him?

“Tell me, old sport, what do you think of the silverware?” Gatsby asks one morning over a sleepy breakfast. “It’s all real silver, imported from Turkey.”

“It’s beautiful, Gatsby,” Nick replies, rubbing at his tired eyes as they begin to water. “Really.”

Gatsby frowns down at his plate, looking troubled. “Say, old sport,” he mumbles bashfully, fidgeting with the napkin in his lap. “Do you think you can quit calling me Gatsby?”

“Hmm?” Nick asks through a loud yawn, just barely covered through a forced cough.

“Well, it’s just….friends don’t usually call each other by their surnames, do they?” Gatsby asks anxiously, forgetting to hide his more turbulent emotions in front of Nick for the fifth time that night. “I call you by your first name and by nicknames...could you just call me Jay?”

Nick nods, mumbling the new name to himself under his breath. It sounds foreign, like the name of a stranger he’s never laid eyes on before.

“It might take me some time to adjust,” he admits with an apologetic glance at his restless, tense host. "But I'll try."

Gatsby grins shakily and nods. “Of course, of course...thanks, Nick.”

“Of course, Gat-....Jay.”

Gatsby smiles again, bright and sure, the way he had smiled when Nick first met him and they were both on top of the world.


	3. Chapter 3

The final, agonizing heat wave of the summer rolls through New York like a tidal wave, swallowing the entire city.

The bond office is not immune to this influx in temperature, and it becomes a sweltering pit of perspiring bodies and discarded jackets, even with all of the windows and doors propped open. 

Such a muggy and uncomfortable environment spoils people’s already lukewarm temperaments, causing tensions to run high and several flighty arguments to break out sporadically throughout the work day. 

_“Keep your damn papers on your side of the table, Caraway!”_

_“Quit setting your jacket so close to me, Donovan! I mean it!”_

_“Where the hell is the damned water girl?! How much is Walters payin’ her lazy ass, anyway?!”_

Work is more miserable than ever before, and if quitting didn’t require returning home to the Midwest, Nick is certain that he’d toss up his phone receiver and leave.

“I heard that it’s supposed to cool down in September,” one of the secretaries chirps in an upbeat tone that draws envious and hate-filled glares from the bondmen. “Can’t come soon enough, can it?”

“I’m afraid that it can’t,” Nick agrees softly, edging as close to the nearest open window as he can without throwing himself out of it.

The suffocating heat makes it hard to relax, hard to think, and hard to _breathe_. 

By noon every day Nick finds that his dress shirt is stuck to his back like a second skin and that he’s dizzy with the heat, no matter how much water he drinks. The train rides home in the evenings are the worst, as all of the cars are like large tin ovens, baking the poor passengers alive.

Nick can’t recall another summer being quite so hot before. Twice during his walk to work he witnesses someone succumb to the heat, collapsing in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Sun stroke,” Jordan diagnoses knowingly after Nick details these encounters to her over lunch. “I’ve seen it out on the green before, people get overheated and drop like flies.”

“It’s too hot these days,” Nick mumbles, loosening his tie and holding his glass of water up to his temple. “I’m surprised we don’t all keel over.”

“I love weather like this,” Jordan replies contently, tipping the brim of her sun hat back to reveal her freckled face. “I wish it was like this all year round. I hate snow, ice, heavy coats, and being cold.”

“You should consider moving to Florida, then.”

“Florida doesn’t have the social scene that New York has,” Jordan says with a pointed glance towards the congested cross walk beyond the cafe’s balcony. “There’d be no one to talk to, and I haven’t heard of any women’s golf leagues south of the Mason-Dixon line.” 

“You could start one,” Nick offers with a small smile. “You’re the trail blazer for women in athletics, after all, surely you could find a sponsor to help fund such an endevor...and you’d attract plenty of friends, what with being the face of the new league and all.”

Nick expects Jordan to brush away his suggestion with an uninterested flick of her wrist, the same way she dismisses all topics that bore her, but she actually looks intrigued.

It would appear that she’s seriously weighing Nick’s suggestion.

“Perhaps I’ll think about it,” she mumbles with a meditative hum. “Although, there is a certain charm to New York City that I would miss...”

Nick nods along, even though he has yet to understand this mystic New York City charm that he’s heard Daisy and several of his coworkers rave about time and time again. 

“Speaking of charming things, have you seen your cousin lately, Nick?” Jordan asks, cutting into her slice of lemon meringue pie. “Her and Tom are having a dinner party this Saturday, and I was wondering if I’d see you there.”

“Daisy called and invited me last night, but I’m not sure if I’ll attend or not,” Nick admits, swiping his napkin across his sweat slick forehead.

“Why not?”

Nick doesn’t have a good excuse, not really. His reluctance to attend his cousin’s dinner party is caused by a cocktail of circumstantial happenings, including Jay’s worsening mental state, his own feelings of disenchantment with life, and the unbearable heat.

However, Nick feels that it would be too difficult and too personal to share this with Jordan.

So he lies.

“I might be going on a date,” He says indifferently, the cogs in his head spinning and whirring as he scrambles to weave a believable tale of bland office romance. 

“A date?” Jordan asks, seemingly astonished by this news, a little too astonished for Nick’s comfort.

“Yes, a date,” He reiterates with a nod, Jordan’s shock making him feel uneasy. “It’s nothing serious, just dinner and maybe a picture.”

“Who is she?”

“You don’t know her.”

“I might, Nick. I daresay that I know half of New York,” Jordan presses, eyes narrowed and fingertips dancing over her bottom lip.

She’s moved past shock to suspicion and is analyzing the scene before her, looking for a crack or chip to pry open. Nick isn’t sure why Jordan is so suspicious of him, isn't sure why she finds his alibi so unbelievable, but she’s clearly trying to catch him in a lie.

“I’d rather not say.”

“Why not? Are you taking up company with a woman of the night, Nick?” Jordan teases in a mock whisper, lips spreading into a small, amused smile. 

“No, no, she’s not a sex worker, it’s just that I think she’d prefer I keep her private life quiet.”

Jordan’s smile becomes harder with confusion, but she doesn’t press any further.

Instead, she flicks her wrist, effectively ending their conversation, and turns her empty eyes to the shiny, polished automobiles speeding up and down the street.  
\-------------------------------------------

When Nick’s phone begins to ring on Thursday night, he assumes that it’s Jay. 

This is a reasonable conclusion to come to, as Jay’s late night escapades of desperation and loneliness have escalated to a bi-weekly occurrence, and an invitation to these manic episodes is really the only social outing Nick embarks on.

However, Nick is surprised when he answers the phone to find that it’s not Jay on the other end, but Daisy.

“Hello, Nicky. How are you?” 

“I’m well, and you?” Nick asks politely, seating himself in his worn out armchair and glancing over at Jay’s mansion, searching for a lit window or a silhouette. 

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m always fine,” Daisy replies with a light, breezy laugh. “I was wondering if you’ll be coming to my little party tomorrow. I need to know whether or not to have the girls set you a place at the table.”

Nick hesitates to respond, the pang of guilt in his chest quarreling fiercely with the squirming sense of reluctance in his stomach.

He’d really rather not go.

An evening spent in the Buchanan’s miserably stuffy living room is unappealing enough as it is, but factor in Tom’s typical bigotry, Daisy’s marital and extramarital trinkets on display, and the suffocating heat wave and it becomes a living hell.

“I’m sorry, Daisy, but I don’t think that I can go,” Nick says awkwardly, feeling both guilty and relieved. “You see, I have other plans-”

“Oh, I see...Jordan mentioned something over brunch today about you possibly going on a date Friday night,” Daisy says, her disappointed frown translating over the line with perfect clarity. 

“Ye-es, I am-...I do have a date on Friday night with a girl from the office.”

Daisy is silent for a moment, the uncomfortable gap filled by Pammy’s muffled crying and the clattering of utensils and plates being put away in the kitchen.

“I was really hoping to see you, Nicky,” Daisy finally says through a sigh. “You see, Tom and I...we’ve been having a rough go at things lately.”

“I’m awfully sorry to hear that. Are you alright?”

“Oh, yes, I’m fine, but...it would be nice to have other people around. I’ve been spending more time with Miss Baker, and I’ve gone out nearly every day this week. I saw a picture the other day, Nicky, and it was quite funny. It was about an odd little cat playing baseball.”

“Do you need to spend the weekend at my house?” Nick asks, feeling it necessary to offer shelter if Daisy is truly in need of escape. “You can sleep in my bed, I won’t mind putting the couch to use.”

“Oh no, Nicky, but thank you. It’s not the first time Tom and I have had….a little lovers quarrel. We both just need some time to blow off steam, that’s all.”

Nick can’t help but wonder, with a sense of dread, if this ‘little lovers quarrel’ has anything to do with Tom finding out about Daisy’s affair with Jay. 

Usually Tom is heavily preoccupied with various activities, such as horseback riding, reading propaganda, playing tennis, and romancing Myrtle Wilson. Surely he hasn’t suddenly concerned himself with Daisy’s day-to-day whereabouts….has he?

“Well, if you’re sure you’re alright-” Nick begins to say apprehensively, only to be cut off by Daisy’s sudden epiphany:

“Why, Nicky, I should just throw a second dinner party on Saturday! You could come then, couldn’t you?”

Nick internally groans, as his plans of aversion have successfully been foiled. He can’t very well just make up another excuse, as he’d look like an inconsiderate flake…

“Why, yes, I can come to your second dinner party,” he says with forced enthusiasm. “I’ll see you then.”

“Yes, I’ll see you then, Nicky, and I want to hear all about this date!” Daisy says through an excited giggle. “I want to know this girl; where she works, what she looks like, the whole nine yards!”

Nick runs a hand over his face and winces, feeling as if he’s set up a rather sticky, uncomfortable trap for himself.

Of course, the one time he lies it comes back to bite him….  
\-----------------------------------

As the sun begins to set on Friday night, bathing West Egg in darkness and quiet, Jay’s house casts light and commotion across the island.

The orchestra in the ballroom quite literally rocks the house, causing the walls of Jay’s mansion to violently rattle and shake. 

Party-goers drink liquor and dance, swirling around the vast lower levels of the mansion in several flurries of slurred pleasantries and drunken cat calls. 

The fountains in the back gardens become a popular spot, as several people wade into them in an attempt to stave off the insufferable heat, carelessly tossing their shoes and jackets into the hydrangea bushes.

There’s an abundance of human activity and commotion filling Jay Gatsby’s mansion. Shouts and laughter carry through the air like a fairground melody, the melody of humanity, filling in any space left by the orchestra. 

And yet, Jay is seemingly unsatisfied with the company that floods into his home in search of booze, music, and a roaring good time. 

At least Nick _assumes_ that Jay is unsatisfied, as he can’t imagine Jay would still request his company if the drunken guests filling up the house were enough.

“It’s very loud!” Nick yells over the commotion as the butler in the entranceway offers him a cigar. “I can barely hear myself think!”

“The parties here are always very loud, Mr. Carraway!” The butler replies with a cordial smile as he leads Nick up to Jay’s study. “Although, this one does seem louder than most, doesn’t it?!”

“Yes, it does! Do you reckon there are more people here tonight than usual?!”

“Perhaps! I won’t miss these obnoxious parties one bit, I can tell you that much with certainty! And I imagine as Mr. Gatsby’s neighbor that you won’t miss them too dearly yourself!” The butler yells with a hearty laugh and a shake of his head.

Nick quirks an eyebrow, mildly shocked. “You mean he’s done throwing parties?”

“I believe so, Mr. Carraway! He told the entire wait staff this morning that we won’t be working late on Friday nights for much longer, as he plans to discontinue throwing these big shindigs!”

Nick is surprised by this news, but only for a brief moment, as he can’t think of a single reason why Jay _would_ continue to throw such extravagant parties.After all, the parties have always been nothing more than a means to try and capture Daisy’s heart, and Daisy was rather unimpressed with them, all in all.

They’ve outlived their purpose.

“Hey, old sport!” Jay greets with a little too much enthusiasm, his shaky smile making Nick’s stomach twist uncomfortably. “I’m glad to see you, come on in.”

Nick shoots the butler one last smile before entering Jay’s study, which is all out of sorts, several books and newspaper clippings scattered across the desktop, chairs, and floor.

“Did a twister blow through here, Jay?” Nick teases gently, eyeing up the mess with mixed amusement and concern.

Jay laughs sheepishly, sweat damp hair hanging in his face. “No, I’ve just been, eh...you see, I’ve been going through some things…”

“Yes, I can see that,” Nick replies softly, settling himself down in a chair across from Jay’s desk, the muffled noise of the party below causing the floor to vibrate and hum beneath his feet.

“Were you offered a cigar, old sport?” Jay asks through a cough, fishing around in his desk, presumably for a cigar box. “I have some in here that were imported from France….”

“Yes, I was, but I’m alright, thank you.”

Jay shrugs, lighting himself a smoke with shaking hands. “Alright then, old sport, alright…sorry about the mess.”

Nick shakes his head, picking up several of the newspaper clippings at his feet and unfolding them atop of his lap. “The mess doesn’t bother me at all...but something is clearly bothering you. What’s on your mind, Jay?”

Jay takes a drag from his cigar and wilts down into a chair, fingers drumming restlessly off of the desktop. 

Something heavy is clearly weighing on his mind and crushing him beneath it’s tremendous weight, but it would appear that Jay is unsure how to vocalize this trouble of his.

“Well, you see, old sport, I….I, eh….I’m…well...”

Nick waits as patiently as he can given his own anxiety and the nagging heat, watching as Jay repeatedly stumbles over his own tongue, trying his best to articulate.

“It’s….I-I think….I think it’s everything, Nick,” Jay finally manages to say, sounding confused and unsure of himself, the statement phrased more like a question. “My life, my entire life, is….you see, it’s falling apart on me, I’m afraid...and I don’t think I can salvage it.”

Nick is admittedly stunned, feeling as if his lungs have been punctured, his breath escaping him along with his ability to speak. His mind reels, trying to piece together what must have happened to bring Jay down to such a hopeless and forlorn state. 

Did he finally spot one of his gifts to Daisy, given out of misguided but intense adoration, being sported by Jordan Baker?

Did Daisy express a desire to remain at Tom’s side in their comfortable and respectable marital bed? 

“Well, I...I’m sorry,” Nick manages to mumble, heart sinking when Jay’s eyes dart down to analyze the label of the cigar box in order to avoid contact with Nick’s. “If there’s anything I can do-”

“You do too much for me already, old sport. I drag you out of bed at all hours of the night and keep you up by talking your goddamn ear off. And….and the thing that blows me away is that you always come...no matter what, you always come and let me talk you into the ground.”

Nick frowns worriedly, feeling uneasy and ill equipped to deal with this messiness. He’s always been relatively clumsy with delicate things such as glassware and emotions, and it would appear that Jay really can’t afford to be dropped at the moment.

“Jay, I...it’s really nothing. You’re my friend, and I would hope that if I ever….well, if I ever decided at three in the morning that I was lonesome and in need of company that you would do the same for me.”

Jay cracks a small smile, daring to make brief eye contact before shifting his gaze to the stub of his cigar. 

“Of course I would,” he replies with a nod, a faint smile still on his lips. “I’d do whatever you needed me to, Nick.”

“Then stop being so damn critical of yourself, Jay,” Nick implores with a shake of his head, desperation edging his voice. “Now, let’s try and figure out what we should do here. My father always used to say that the best way to clear your head is with the help of some scotch.”

“You want a scotch, old sport?” Jay asks eagerly, clearly hoping to offer Nick _something_. “I’ll have someone fetch you a glass! I’ve got some of the finest scotch in my kitchen!”

“Don’t you want a glass, Jay?”

“Oh, I’m afraid I don’t indulge in drinking myself, but I’d be more than glad to serve you a glass!”

“Well, if you aren’t drinking-” Nick begins to protest, but Jay is already reaching for the phone set balanced precariously on the edge of the desk.

“Say, could one of you fellows in the kitchen fetch a glass of scotch for our guest and bring it up to the study?”

Nick feels awkward at the mere thought of drinking alone, as the consumption of alcohol is most definitely meant to be a social activity, but Jay looks so pleased with himself….Nick can’t possibly deny him this.

“Why don’t we tidy up in here, Jay?”

The rest of the night passes in a rather predictable and calm manner, despite the pulsating noise of the party below seeping into the study.

Nick collects all of the flimsy newspaper clippings from about the room and arranges them in a neat pile atop of the desk, glancing down at the snipped headlines as he goes:

_Debutante Daisy Fay Spotted With Unnamed Beau at Kentucky Derby!_

_Debutante Daisy Fay Attends Golf Championship with Father in Florida!_

_Murdered Gangster Found in Brooklyn Possibly Had Ties to the Underworld of Illicit Alcohol Sales!_

_Kentucky Debutante Daisy Fay and Chicago Billionaire Tom Buchanan Marry!_

_Twister in North Dakota Wrecks Havoc; 15 Dead!_

Nick wants to ask questions, as he has several buzzing around in his head. 

All of the clippings about Daisy don’t surprise him in the least, as Nick had figured that Jay must have hounded after any source of Daisy’s whereabouts like a madman in order to track her down, but some of the other articles seem out of place and downright bizarre. 

For example, Nick finds that the death notice for a North Dakotan woman named Jessabelle Gatz as well as the various articles about Eastern farmers losing their land to both natural disasters and government repossessions stick out like sore thumbs. 

However, despite his numerous curiosities, Nick doesn’t dare ask, as he would hate to rock the boat after the waters have just calmed.

Jay seems to have finally found some sense of contentment, smiling softly to himself as he slips the newspaper clippings back into several thick photo albums. He continuously glances across the study at Nick, an oddly warm look in his eyes.

Nick is feeling rather mellow now himself, the two scotches in his empty stomach along with Jay’s relaxed state putting him at ease.

“The scotch is very good,” Nick says with a dopey grin when he catches Jay staring at him again. “Thank you.”

Jay shakes his head, a sudden flush coloring his cheeks as he looks away.

“Of course, old sport. Say….”

“Say what?” Nick asks, slightly embarrassed by how slow his speech is from the scotch. 

“Well…how fond are you of your new house now that you've lived in it for awhile?”

Nick giggles into his glass, shaking his head. “What? You want to purchase the property to tear it down and build yourself a second pool, Mr. Gatsby?”

Jay manages a laugh, although it sounds more nervous than merry. “No, one pool is plenty for me. I was just wondering how much you enjoy living there. It’s rather small, isn’t it?”

Nick shrugs and gazes out the large windows at the front of the study, overlooking Jay’s crowded front drive. 

“It’s a little small, I suppose, but plenty big for one man. I grew up in a much bigger house, but...I’m not that concerned about the size of my house, really.”

“No?”

“No. It’s not like I’ve got ten kids.”

Jay laughs again, still sounding rather nervous. “Ah, I see. Well, I was just thinking, you see, and I was wondering if you’d be interested in... _ah_ , never mind! It’s a stupid idea,” Jay dismisses with a shake of his head and yet another uneasy chuckle.

“What’s a stupid idea?” Nick asks curiously, slumping down into a chair. 

Jay looks downright embarrassed, face bright red. He coughs into his fist and digs around for yet another cigar to puff on before attempting to answer.

“Well, you see, I was just thinking that your house is so small and my house is so big, Nick, really much too big for one man...and, well, I’ve got so many extra rooms, so I was wondering if you’d...if you’d want to take up residence in one of them.”

Nick is beyond flattered, finding that he’s speechless yet again that night, unsure what to say as his heart swells and his lips quiver.

“Oh...Jesus, that’s...that’s a very kind offer, Jay, I’ve never…no one’s ever...”

Jay is once again brushing off his own suggestion through a series of rapid head shakes and humiliated splutters as he sucks on his cigar. “It’s a stupid idea, I oughtn’t make such stupid suggestions, really, old sport, I-”

“Well, it was a very _kind_ suggestion, Jay,” Nick insists with a soft smile, his own face bright red with it. “I don’t think that I can accept, but-”

“But?”

“But I’m touched, really and truly. Thank you.”

Jay, still flushed and shaking ever so slightly, returns Nick’s smile with one of his own and a firm nod.

“Of course, Nick.”  
\------------------------------------------

The Buchanan’s living room is just as stifling and uncomfortable as Nick had imagined it would be, and the lack of any breeze flowing in through the open windows makes it all the more miserable.

“You look like you’ve gone swimming, Nick,” Jordan teases as she joins him on the sofa, a glass of iced tea in her hand. “Did you come across the bay instead of going around it?”

Nick laughs, despite being rather embarrassed by how sweat slick his hairline and under arms are after only a half an hour of sitting out in the heat.

“I went around, but you can’t tell. I didn’t expect so many people to be here tonight. Do you know any of the women keeping my cousin company over by the piano?”

Jordan shakes her head, the ice in her glass rattling. “No, but she said something earlier about having had invited some of her book club friends. The only one I’m familiar with is the tall Italian woman, I know the two of them often go shopping together.”

Nick nods, glancing around the living room to take inventory of all the guests again. He had been surprised upon his arrival when he was greeted by a living room full of unfamiliar women, all claiming to be dear friends of Daisy.

“It was worse last night,” Jordan says lowly with a wicked grin. “Tom had all of the men he plays pollo with over, and Daisy invited this shrill little woman who did nothing but shriek with laughter whenever someone so much as smiled.”

“Sounds like a lovely evening.”

Jordan snorts into her glass. “Yes, perfectly lovely. I considered drowning myself in the bay halfway through dinner, Nick, it was all so uncomfortable and awkward.”

“Daisy said that she and Tom weren’t getting along too well these days…” Nick mumbles quietly, as if afraid that Daisy or Tom could possibly hear him over the numerous conversations going on throughout the room.

“They aren’t. I’m not sure what happened, Daisy won’t tell me, but I can’t imagine it takes very much for a marriage between two unfaithful parties to become volatile.”

The word volatile stirs something unpleasant in the pit of Nick’s stomach, causing him to squirm ever so slightly and glance across the room at his cousin, as if he’s afraid she won’t still be there.

“So, now you know how my Friday night went,” Jordan continues, seemingly oblivious to Nick’s sudden discomfort. “How was your date?”

“Fine.”

“Daisy seemed very excited about it.”

“About what?” Nick asks, assuming that he must’ve missed something while he was busy staring at his cousin in concern. 

“About you going on a date, Nick,” Jordan replies, smirking. “She went on and on about how picky you are with women.”

Nick shrugs as casually as he can, grabbing a glass of water off of a refreshment tray when one of the maids skirts close enough to him. 

“I suppose I am a little picky.”

Jordan hums, side eyeing Nick with the same unnerving smirk on her lips. “Yes, that’s what Daisy said. She said that you never had a girlfriend in high school or college, despite several girls being very interested in you. She said it was because you found all of the girls to either be too flighty or too vain.”

“I don’t recall ever making such statements,” Nick says slowly, not sure if he should rebuff such claims or simply let them lie. 

The way Jordan is silently analyzing him is unnerving, to say the least, and Nick has a bad feeling about the unwelcome direction that their conversation is taking.

“Daisy also said that you only had one real relationship, one with a family friend, Eliza Fredrickson.”

“Yes, she and I were-”

“Engaged. But you repeatedly postponed the wedding, pushing it back months at a time with the excuse that you felt that you didn’t know Eliza well yet and that you didn’t want to marry a girl you didn’t know.”

Nick feels cornered. He’s very aware of where this conversation is headed now, as he’d had a similar one with his mother before deciding to leave Minnesota. Jordan is beating around the bush, clearly hoping to extract a confession from him instead of saying it herself.

“Eliza is a wonderful person,” Nick mumbles, tongue feeling thick and heavy in his mouth. “We knew each other as children, we saw each other every Sunday afternoon while our mothers held bridge club. I always thought very highly of Eliza, she was always very kind to me, even given my….condition.”

Jordan’s smirk drops, her empty eyes filling with what Nick recognizes as pity.

“Condition?” She asks softly, uncharacteristically soft for a woman of her particular hardness. “Do you really view it as a condition, Nick?”

Feeling completely uncomfortable and hot, Nick wishes more than anything that he could end this conversation with the same authority and confidence that Jordan ends all conversations that disinterest her with.

But he can’t.

“No, _I_ don’t, but other people-”

“You have to know that you’re in more than safe company with me,” Jordan interrupts, her smirk reappearing. “Really, Nick, you know I like women, don’t you?”

Nick can’t help but laugh quietly at the boldness that the usually subtle, snide, and secretive Jordan Baker is exhibiting like a fashion statement. Her smirk grows into a genuine smile, the first one Nick has ever seen on her lips.

“You know, Nick,” she whispers in a conspiratorial hush. “It would be fabulous if the two of us could just switch. It would make both of our lives so much simpler, wouldn’t it?”

Nick laughs again, louder this time, and nods in agreement. 

Jordan continues to smile, eyes full of mirth and a deep sense of understanding that makes Nick momentarily forget his worries.  
\-------------------------------------------------

Nick attempts to leave the Buchanan’s dinner party at a reasonable hour.

After a grand three course meal full of inane and polite chit chat among the court of women and irritated grumbles from Tom, Nick quietly requests that one of the maids fetch his jacket for him.

He bids goodnight to Jordan, who has made herself rather comfortable with one of Daisy’s book club groupies. The two of them are tucked away in the reading room, whispering to one another and laughing over iced tea. 

Nick then makes his way to the front door, only to be stopped by a clearly bored and restless Tom.

“Nick!” He cries, clapping a heavy hand down on his fleeing guest’s shoulder. “I haven’t spoken to you yet tonight. How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine, just a little tired. I was actually just leaving-”

“You want a drink, Nick?” Tom asks, already steering Nick back into the house. “I’ve got some brandy if you want a glass.”

“No thank you, really, I’m just-”

“I need to talk to you, Nick,” Tom continues, voice firm and subtly forceful in a way that makes Nick feel as if he’s being lead into a jailhouse instead of a dining room. “You have a new woman? Daisy said something about you going out last night.”

“Yes, just a secretary from the bond office. I took her to dinner and a picture,” Nick replies, watching as the maids scurry to finish clearing the vast oak table, working even faster under Tom’s scornful eye.

“You bring her home?” Tom asks casually.

“No, it was late by the time the picture let out.”

“You know, now that I'm thinking about it, I doubt that taking her home would've have gotten her legs open, anyway. Not with that castle next door to your little house,” Tom dismisses with a grunt, moving to reseat himself at the table. “She’d have been knocking on that bastard’s door within minutes. What’s his name? Gaber?”

“Gatsby,” Nick answers, daring to take a seat next to Tom. He flinches when the Tom snaps his fingers, gruffly ordering a nearby servant girl to bring out the brandy and close the dining room doors to ensure that none of the other guests catch a whiff of any alcohol.

“That’s his name then. Well, I overhear Miss Baker and Daisy talking about him quite a lot these days,” Tom continues with a disapproving sniff. “Daisy says that his house is the goddamn palace that’s lit up like a Christmas tree every Friday night.”

Nick nods along, waiting for Tom to begin to reel, hissing and snapping fouly about Daisy leaving him for another man and his own dissatisfaction.

So he's not very surprised when Tom sniffs again and mumbles with disdain; “I wonder if he’s who my wife’s fucking.”

“I beg your pardon?” Nick inquires, too tired, sweaty, and miserable to even bother feigning shock more genuine than a cocked eyebrow. “You think Daisy is-”

“Oh I _know_ she’s seeing men behind my back,” Tom replies, left hand curling into a fist as he glares daggers through the cabinet of china up against the wall. “I’m no idiot, Nick, but she...she thinks that I am.”

Nick finds that he’s nervous, not for himself, but for both his cousin and Jay. Tom has already correctly stated the true situation, although only in passing, bitter sarcasm. If he ever is to actually realize that it’s Jay….

“Why do you think that Dai-”

“I know her, I’m fucking _married_ to her!” Tom hisses lowly, face turning red and lips trembling. “She’s not a good liar, Nick, I know that she’s slipping away from me! I found a love bite on her collar bone a week ago, and she just batted her eyes and claimed that it was nothing! She said that my eyes were playing tricks on me! She thinks I’m nothing but a blind, batty old man!”

Nick once again finds his eyes instinctively wandering for Daisy, despite being all alone with a steaming mad Tom in the unbearably hot dining room. She needs to be safe, she needs to be careful…

“That’s not all, though,” Tom growls, leaning forward in his seat. “I came back from lunch early one day and found that she was gone, so-”

“She could’ve just been out to lunch, too.”

“No, no! She was _not_ just out to lunch! I thought so, too, at first, Nick, she had me fooled until I came home from a tennis match early the following day, and she was gone again! So I made it a habit to come home an hour or so early-”

“Tom, this sounds like blatant paranoia.”

“Don’t interrupt me, Nick! She has you fooled, she has you bamboozled! She’s a tricky one, I really fell for quite a slippery woman, but I know what she’s been up to! She was gone every time I came home earlier than expected, so I asked the chauffeur where the hell he’d been taking her-”

“Tom, she’s allowed to have a life outside of the house!” Nick interrupts, feeling too bold and too frustrated to think clearly. “She was probably out to lunch or at her...her book club, for God’s sake!”

Tom frowns, blue blooded veins in his forehead bulging. “She was not, Nick, she was not! The chauffeur said that he’d been taking her over to see you for tea almost every other day, but I know that’s not the case! I know that she’s been seeing some man-”

“How do you know that she and I don’t have tea together every day?” Nick challenges angrily, clambering to his feet. “How do you know-”

“Because she went over there every other afternoon! The chauffeur says that she’d be at your house from one until four, and I know for a fact that you don’t get home from work until six! I know-”

“What do you know, Tom?” Nick asks just a tad too loudly to be considered polite. “What do you know about my cousin?”

Tom bangs his fist off of the table and growls. He draws his shoulders back and opens his mouth, clearly ready to yell until he’s blue, when a look of horrified confusion clouds his face.

His jowly mouth snaps shut, and he stares up at Nick in a dangerous mixture of disbelief and anger.

“What do _you_ know, Nick?” He asks with a shake of his head and raised eyebrow. “You’re jumping to her defense here, claiming you’ve had tea with her while at work...what do you know that you’re not telling me?”

Nick doesn’t answer, brushing past the frazzled maid, a brandy in each of her hands, and exiting the dining room in a hurry.

On his way out, his head spinning and his hands shaking, he actively scouts out Daisy to go say goodbye.

“Oh, Nicky!” She gushes upon his approach, pausing in her animated conversation with a group of her friends to wrap him up in her arms. “I haven’t really talked to you yet tonight! How are you? Oh my, how was your date?! I want to hear all about it!”

“I’m actually afraid that I’m on my way out, Daisy,” Nick replies softly, managing to crack a small smile. “Why don’t you meet me for lunch sometime next week and we’ll talk all about it?”

Daisy smiles back at him, but she looks worried, briefly holding a cool hand up to his cheek.

“You’re warm, Nicky,” she whispers softly. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes, I’m just overheated and tired, so I’ll be going. Are…” Nick pauses, casting a wary look over at Daisy’s friends, who have all busied themselves in another conversation during her absence. “Are you sure you’re alright, Daisy?”

Daisy nods, smile widening. “Of course, I’m always fine! Thank you for coming tonight, I just wished I’d seen more of you!”

“Oh, it’s alright, you have more than enough guests to get around to.”

Daisy nods, looking around the crowded, stuffy living room with a fake, toothy smile that embodies the New York charm that had, until this very moment, confused Nick horribly.

“Yes, there’s always plenty of people, aren’t there, Nicky?”  
\---------------------------------------

Given his fever from the heat and his broiling anger at Tom, Nick knows that he really should just end the miserable day by going to bed.

However, he finds that he’s too worked up to do so much as sit down for more than a few moments at a time, his mind racing away from him and back across the bay to Daisy.

He hopes that she knows what she’s doing, hopes that she’s an expert at handling the snarling beast that is Tom’s poor temperament.

Nick paces up and down the stairs, shaking with both anger and suppressed anxiety. Guilt gnaws away at him, as he knows that he's had a helping hand in this entire situation. He was the one to reunite Jay and Daisy, and he’s also played docile witness to Tom and Myrtle’s affair ….

Does unhappiness hang around him like an odor? Does the falsity of New York become of him all too well? 

What about Jordan? Is Nick like her in more aspects than their ‘peculiar aversion of courtship’? Nick is aware that Jordan truly is a lovely woman beneath her hard, well polished exterior, but Nick is also aware that Jordan purposefully utilizes this exterior in order to thrive in the pits of New York City. 

Is he the same? 

Is he just as fake?

Nick suddenly wishes that he’d accepted Tom’s brandy, wishes that he’d downed both of the glasses and let his body hum with it. At least when he’s been drinking he floats, he floats like a goose feather atop of the murky pond instead of sinking into its depths.

In the midst of this existential crisis, Nick catches a glimpse of a lit room on the upper west side of Jay’s mansion. Nick pauses in his frenzied pacing to stare at it, the warm, yellow glow stretching out across the edge of his living room rug like the incoming tide.

The next thing he knows, without much thought at all, Nick is reaching for his phone, still staring up at the lit room in Jay’s house with bated breath.

“This is the residence of Mr. Jay Gatsby, to whom am I speaking?” 

“Ah, yes, hello, this is Nick Carraway. Could I please speak with Jay?”  
\-------------------------------------------

Despite having had been inside of Nick’s home before, Jay acts as if he’s never seen it, gazing around at the chipped white paint on the walls and worn-in rugs as Nick leads him inside.

“Can I get you anything, Jay? I think I have tea and coffee in the kitchen,” Nick offers, voice cracking like static. 

“Tea sounds great,” Jay answers with a smile, looking all too excited to be in Nick’s home. He walks around the perimeter of the living room, seemingly admiring all of the decorative plates and ceramic figurines displayed along the shelves mounted on the walls.

“Alright then,” Nick mumbles, moving into the kitchen to fetch the kettle and tea bags.

He fully expects Jay to settle himself down on the sofa and wait for his host to return, but when Nick turns around to light the gas stove top, he finds that Jay is right behind him, bouncing on the heels of his feet.

“I like the ceramic robins you have on those shelves in there,” he says conversationally. “Did you bring them with you from home?”’

“Yes, they were my father’s,” Nick replies with a nod, finding Jay’s lack of judgement towards his less than glamorous abode ever so slightly shocking. 

Jay is all-in-all a very kind, generous, and non judgemental soul, but Nick had still assumed that someone who lives in a mansion only a few terraces short of a palace would find the under-furnished gardener’s house next door to be unimpressive and perhaps even ugly.

But Jay seems _excited_ to be in Nick's home. He glows, almost as if he believes it a privilege to bear witness to the inside of Nick's humble abode.

“Are you feeling alright, old sport?” 

“Hmm?”

Jay looks worried, no longer bouncing in place or smiling. “You look warm and...well, I assume, from personal experience, that a request for company so late into the night is because you have something weighing on your mind.”

Nick laughs, but it comes out sounding much more disheartened and tired than he intended for it to.

“I’m alright, just tired. I was at Daisy’s house tonight, she had a dinner party, and….well, Tom knows that she’s having an affair, Jay. He doesn’t know it’s _you_ that she’s having an affair with, but...he knows that she’s been unfaithful.”

Jay looks confused, a slight laugh escaping his lips. “Well, of course he knows, Nick! He was bound to find out at one point or another, it’s not like she could just up and leave him with no explanation!”

Nick rubs at his throbbing temple, finding Jay’s optimism that borders delusional to be too much tonight. 

How crushed will Jay be when Daisy never leaves Tom? Will he ever give up hope, or will he simply continue to follow her around the country with a heavy heart, full of a love that is far too complicated and problematic for Daisy to handle?

“This situation isn’t good, Jay,” Nick finally says, burying his face in his hands and shaking his head. “Honest to God, if I’d had _any idea_ what I was setting into motion when I had Daisy over that afternoon…”

Jay looks both confused and hurt by this confession, leaning up against Nick’s cluttered counter with a frown. 

“What are you getting at, old sport? You...you don’t think-”

“No, Jay, I don’t. I don’t think she’s going to leave Tom. And it’s not you, it’s not her, it’s….it’s just life. She has a life, _an established existence_ , that doesn’t involve you. She has the big, fancy house, and the pandering wait staff, and the daughter she’s always wanted. She has it all set up, and it's comfortable, relatively safe, and _familiar._ " 

“She has a daughter?” Jay asks in a small voice, eyes widening to the size of dinner plates and blood draining from his face.

“Yes, two years old. She never-”

“No,” Jay mumbles, still looking thoroughly shocked.

Nick feels like quite the bringer of bad news, so much so that he once again wishes that he'd never agreed to have Daisy over that fateful afternoon. He wishes that could have avoided this mess and simply stayed out of it, simply prevented Jay from getting sucked into it...

“I’m sorry, I….I thought you knew.”

Jay shakes his head, watching the kettle so intently that one would think it capable of doing tricks.

“I don’t know her, Nick, not really. Not the way I thought I did. I’ve been...meeting Daisy lately, getting to know her, and she’s not the woman I remember from Louisville, not really. I can’t help but wonder if I ever knew her at all.”

Nick rubs at his temple again, wincing. He’s not calm or well enough himself to be a comforting presence tonight, and he has no idea what he should say. 

He’s known from the beginning of this mess that Jay is in love with a figment of his imagination that just happened to embody itself in Daisy Fay. Perhaps Jay has woken up from the lovely reverie, perhaps he’s just beginning to stir, but either way, Nick knows that Jay has to give up on the dream himself.

There’s nothing Nick can possibly say to dissuade him, not unless Jay chooses to be dissuaded.

“She doesn’t know you either, Jay,” Nick mumbles with a shake of his head, moving the kettle from over the flame when it begins to scream. “She doesn’t even know herself, she’s...she’s whoever she wants to be and whoever other people want her to be. Some days I don’t even think I know her."

Jay is quiet, taking the cup of tea being offered to him with shaking hands. A contemplative look lingers in his eyes, but a complete look of shock clouds his face like a muddled fog. 

“At this time last night, you and I were in my study, Nick. You and I picked up my study,” Jay whispers, sounding awed, like he’s just had an earth shattering epiphany. 

“Yes, I remember,” Nick mumbles with a nod. “You had newspaper everywhere and I was drunk.”

Jay cracks a shaky half smile and nods. “Yes….and there was a party. Down below us, there was a party, a loud, splendid, beautiful party that I threw for a ghost. But you and I were in the study, and we were _real_.”

As vague and bewildering as this statement is, Nick understands it with burning, painful clarity. If he weren’t so tired and dehydrated, he might fall to his knees and weep, but instead he smiles.

“We were,” he replies, sipping his tea. “We still are, I think.”

“I want to be real when I’m with you, Nick,” Jay whispers into his cup, eyes dangerously glassy. “I...I have so much I need to tell you, I just don’t know _how_.”

Nick smiles again, weakly motioning to the living room. “We’ll figure it out like we did last night, and we can go as slow as we damn well please.”

Jay nods, but he doesn’t move to enter the living room right away. He stays propped up against the counter for a moment longer, eyeing up the cooling kettle in the sink, the steam coming off of it making the room humid and hazy.

“My mother had a metal tea kettle like that,” he says absently, fingers drumming off of the countertop anxiously. “She used it to heat up the wash water and to disinfect the well water.”

Nick nods, feeling as if the orphaned Oxford graduate from San Francisco who all but conquered France has begun to wither away, stripping Jay Gatsby of his usual armour.

He is, in a sense, naked.


End file.
